


your weekend lover

by witching



Series: purple rain [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad at communicating, Drinking, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, M/M, Mutual Pining, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "It was purely physical, they had agreed on that from the beginning. Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember why he had agreed to that, but he suspected it had something to do with not ruining their friendship, or some such nonsense. At any rate, that was the deal. The new Arrangement. Purely physical."





	1. Chapter 1

“S’fine, s’good,” Crowley muttered, grabbing the hands that were moving steadily toward his waistband, pushing them gently into Aziraphale’s chest. He lifted his head a little, cueing to the angel that he wished to get up.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, but he shifted from his position on top of Crowley, settling on the sheets beside him with a silent huff. He studied the demon’s face for a long moment. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley tried to hide his shiver in the absence of Aziraphale’s warm body on his. His hand twitched to touch the angel’s skin again, any part of him, but he held back. No need to start mixing up his mixed signals even more. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair, dragged his fingers down his face.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Just… I should go.”

“Are you sure? You –,” Aziraphale made a quick gesture, modestly conveying without words what the rest of his sentence was. “Think I should repay the favor.”

“Really,” Crowley sighed, sitting upright. “You don’t have to.” He swung his feet to the side of the bed and slipped into his shoes smoothly.

“But you – I _want_ to. You know that, right?” Aziraphale’s look of concern deepened.

“Sure, angel. I know.”

Aziraphale pouted. “You won’t stay?”

Crowley stood up. “No,” he said abruptly, firmly. “No, really. I have to go.” As he spoke, he fixed the button on his jeans. He didn’t bother buttoning his shirt, simply threw on his jacket and zipped it over his bare torso.

“So you, you just came here to, to – for me, and then leave?” The angel wrapped himself in a sheet, acutely aware of the cold air on his exposed skin.

“Yeah. It was fun.” Crowley frowned. “Wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale gave him a tense smile. “Of course, dear, always. But… are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting strange.”

“I’m fine, really. Promise.” Crowley donned his sunglasses and flashed an equally uneasy smile back at him. “See you tomorrow, angel.”

And then he was gone, and Aziraphale was left alone, satisfied but utterly unfulfilled.

“See you tomorrow,” he echoed to the empty room after a long moment of shock. “What is _wrong_ with him?” He paced back and forth, chewing on his lip aggressively. Grabbing his sweater from its place on the floor, he began to redress.

Crossing the room to grab his slacks, the angel caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. Vanity wasn’t really in his nature, but the only time he ever used this room was when Crowley came to visit. He stopped in front of the mirror.

“Is it me?” Self-consciousness wasn’t really in his nature either, but Aziraphale seemed to be going against his nature a lot these days.

Exhibit A: engaging in all kinds of carnal sin with his demon best friend. It was purely physical, they had agreed on that from the beginning. Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember _why_ he had agreed to that, but he suspected it had something to do with not ruining their friendship, or some such nonsense. At any rate, that was the deal. The new Arrangement. Purely physical.

He studied his reflection, seeing curves in the places where his demon had angles, soft in the places where Crowley was sharp. As an ethereal being, Aziraphale was undoubtedly above being ashamed of his corporeal form, but he couldn’t help wondering if _something_ about him had made Crowley leave. The demon wasn’t shallow, but Aziraphale knew there were plenty of things about him besides his appearance that should have been turn-offs for Crowley on principle. He assured himself that the demon would never be so self-sacrificing as to sleep with him for months just to spare his feelings. Which brought him back to square one: he had no heavenly idea what had happened today.

The angel muttered aloud to himself as he dressed. “Don’t know what could be so important that he’d have to leave right in the middle of – I mean, we had a routine down, didn’t we, and it’s just rude to – could’ve at least told me _why_. Six millennia of friendship and all of a sudden he can’t talk to me about – all because we – and this wasn’t supposed to _change_ anything.” He groaned, sinking to the floor.

* * *

  _FIVE MONTHS AGO_  

It had been a weird day, the day they had worked out this new Arrangement, or whatever it was. It was about a week after the world didn’t end, and Crowley and Aziraphale were just settling back into their lives, coming to terms with the fact that they were going to keep on living them. They had been talking about it a lot, the Apocalypse that didn’t happen, and it had gotten quite non-philosophical. They were used to philosophical, they had six thousand years of philosophical under their belts, but their conversations in the week after the world didn’t end were shockingly real.

“I had gotten almost okay with the concept of nonexistence,” Crowley said one afternoon. “It was just everything else that I couldn’t – that I needed to stop.”

Aziraphale looked up at the demon, puzzled. “What do you mean, everything else?”

“Well, I just – I mean, I don’t particularly mind if – I don’t really care so much about _my_ life, it’s just, it’s more about…” He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words.

“It’s about the people,” Aziraphale said, understanding immediately. “All those people. It just wouldn’t be fair. We knew what we were in for, but they… they were defenseless.”

Crowley nodded his head, then shook it slightly. He moved his sunglasses to the top of his head in a swift, nervous movement. “Yes, it’s about them, but also… I don’t know. I guess it’s mostly about them.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Is there something else? You know you can tell me, dear, you can tell me anything.” His voice was soft, and it made Crowley’s stomach hurt.

“I just had some regrets, is all.” Crowley stared intently at the floor as he spoke.

“After six thousand years, what could you possibly have to regret?” Aziraphale struggled to keep the laughter out of his voice.

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t regret much of what I did, but there’s a lot of things I didn’t get to do, that I’d always sort of thought, well… I’ll sort that out later. And then when I thought there wasn’t going to be a later, I found myself wishing I’d done some of those things. All of them, really, but some more than others.”

“My dear, you’re being rather cryptic,” the angel pointed out.

“Yeah, that’s usually your job,” Crowley replied with a smile. “Anyway, I’m just saying there’s things we’ve never done that I think, I don’t know, would be worth a try.”

Aziraphale blinked. “We? You didn’t mention we before. What is there that _we_ haven’t done?”

And that was when Crowley pounced on him, as gently as a reasonably tall man can be said to pounce, and kissed him, both hands tangling in the angel’s curls. Aziraphale kissed him back instantly, parting his lips to make way for Crowley’s tongue.

It was over too quickly, as Crowley stumbled backwards in one large step, hands covering his face. “Oh, _shit_ , angel, I’m sorry,” he said hastily.

Aziraphale stood frozen, his mouth hanging open. “Well,” he said after a pause, “we have definitely never done that before.”

“I am sorry,” Crowley repeated, “really, I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s just – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course, dear,” the angel soothed. “I understand. And I didn’t – well, that was unexpected, but not… not altogether unpleasant.”

Crowley jerked his head up. “You what?”

Aziraphale stepped toward him, reassuring him with a gentle hand on his shoulder when the demon attempted to take another step back. He moved closer. “You have a point,” he said softly, “about regrets. About some things being… worth a try.”

“I do?” The demon cocked his head and squinted suspiciously.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle, “you do. I mean, really, why shouldn’t we?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes further. “Why shouldn’t we… what?”

“Why shouldn’t we have some _fun_ ,” Aziraphale said meaningfully. “Since we’re here. Since we’re not going anywhere.” He leaned close, his lips nearly grazing Crowley’s skin as he spoke.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley’s voice was low and ragged even as he tried to maintain a cautious tone. “What are you doing?”

The angel smiled. “Hopefully, something you won’t regret.”

“I don’t – I mean, I _do_ , but – do you? Really?” Crowley’s words fell just short of a coherent question, but Aziraphale understood. He always understood.

“Yes,” he whispered, licking at Crowley’s jaw before moving to suck lightly at his jugular. “I want this, I really do.”

“Ah – _ah_ , angel,” Crowley tried to speak through his involuntary moans. “Are you – are you sure? What do you – what does this _mean?_ ”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean anything by it,” he said airily as he pressed his warm body against Crowley’s. “Just think it might be time to try something new.”

Crowley’s mouth went dry and his knees buckled. “Yes, oh, yes, I agree,” he panted.

Aziraphale’s hands paused, resting on Crowley’s waist, his eyes meeting the demon’s with a silent question.

Crowley nodded fervently and breathed a quiet “Yeah.”

Aziraphale slipped his hands under the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, caressing his waist. Crowley leaned into the touch, squirming under the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands. He groaned softly as the angel continued to explore him, enraptured by smooth skin and hard lines.

“Angel… Aziraphale, we should… bedroom,” Crowley panted in bits and pieces.

Aziraphale didn’t respond except to grab Crowley by his shirt and move them awkwardly toward the stairs. There were several moments of fumbling and shuffling before Aziraphale gained the presence of mind to just miracle them into the bedroom.

“Oh, thank – well, thank _you_ ,” Crowley muttered, quickly reattaching himself to Aziraphale’s mouth.

The angel moaned into the kiss, pushing them toward the bed. He pulled back by millimeters, just enough for Crowley to hear him when he spoke.

“What do you want?”

Crowley swallowed audibly, his hands making a tentative move toward the angel’s waistband. “Can I -- I want to taste you,” he said in a ragged whisper.

Aziraphale nodded, which was all the push Crowley needed to drop to his knees. He made quick work of the clothing in his way, pausing to make eye contact with Aziraphale before taking the angel entirely into his mouth. He worked his throat and tongue in ways no mortal being could have done, and Aziraphale let out a broken moan, stumbling backward as his knees threatened to give out. Crowley made a small hum of approval, nearly pushing the angel over the edge.

“Oh, sweet -- that’s -- _oh_ ,” Aziraphale stammered. He twisted his fingers into the demon’s hair, tugging gently. “Crowley, I’m going to -- soon, I mean, if you don’t stop.”

Crowley did not stop. He kept one hand near Aziraphale’s waist and moved with the other to work the button of his own pants, fumbling for a few moments before he managed to get it open. He began stroking himself in time with the creative movements of his tongue.

When Aziraphale tensed every muscle in his body and came down Crowley’s throat, Crowley took him somehow deeper, gripped the angel’s hip tighter, and swallowed appreciatively. He finished himself half a second later, spilling over his hand.

“Well,” Aziraphale said after a hazy moment, “that was new.” It had all happened rather suddenly, rather quickly, and now reality began to settle over the room like a blanket.

Crowley sat back on his haunches without grace, vanishing the mess with a distant thought. He licked his lips nervously and looked up at Aziraphale, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “New.”

* * *

_PRESENT DAY_

“Bloody idiot,” Crowley sneered, looking at himself with disgust in the rearview mirror of the Bentley. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, denim rubbing harsh against the problem he hadn’t taken care of. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

All told, it could have been worse. Crowley could have told Aziraphale the truth about why he had to leave right at that exact moment, and that would have been much, much worse. He could very easily have said, “Listen, angel, we’ve been doing this casual-sex thing for a while now, and my mortalesque flesh is very much enjoying it, but I’m afraid I must take my leave of you, because you see, I’m horribly in love with you, and if you continue on in this manner, I’m sure it will feel amazing, but I’m also sure that I will cry actual tears, and I am going to have to pass on that experience for today.” He could have said that, but he didn’t, and for that he was a tiny bit grateful.

He drove faster than usual, which before this day he may have thought physically and spiritually impossible. Half the duration of the drive was spent berating himself alternatively for his buffoonish exit and for leaving at all.

“Can’t just be honest, can you, for once in your miserable life. Can’t rip off the band-aid. Something in the genes keeping you from being sincere?” Crowley made eye contact with himself in the mirror. He knew the answer to his question -- it was insecurity, not genetics, that had made him run away from Aziraphale.

“Nope. Behold, the cowardly snake,” he said with an air of bitter bravado. After his performance of self-flagellation, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, releasing a pitiful groan. Then, left to the silence once more, his attention returned to his pants, which were beginning to chafe.

He heaved a sigh. “Suppose I could deal with that now,” he said unenthusiastically.

Crowley did not make a habit of getting off while driving, because he respected the Bentley too much, but once he had committed to doing it, he was rather irritated when he was interrupted by his phone ringing. He knew that it was a hundred to one odds that Aziraphale was calling, though, and try as he might, he couldn’t ignore it. It had only been about twenty minutes since he left the angel, he reasoned, so he might be calling about something important, or else he probably would have waited until Crowley was home. Crowley shook his head, rolling his eyes at his own mental gymnastics, and answered the phone.

“Hullo,” he said roughly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. “Hello.”

There was a long beat of silence before Crowley spoke again. “Angel.”

“Yes?”

“You called me,” Crowley reminded him patiently.

“Ah, yes,” the angel said quickly. “I wanted to clarify -- er, finalize our plans for tomorrow. We didn’t get much of a chance to -- to discuss.”

Crowley stifled a laugh. “Yeah, okay. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking we’d do dinner, and then,” his voice dropped slightly, “see where it takes us.”

“So, just like normal, then,” Crowley said, trying to ignore the warm feeling he got from the angel’s words.

“I suppose that would depend on one’s definition of normal,” Aziraphale replied. He had taken on an indefinable tone, simultaneously dry and soft.

Crowley swallowed. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Yes, that sounds fine.” Aziraphale took a deep breath before continuing. “Although, you could come by earlier, if you wanted.”

“Why?” He asked the blunt question quickly, without thinking.

Aziraphale breathed a soft, exasperated sigh. “Crowley, my dear,” he said simply. Crowley heard him tapping his fingers on some surface or other.

Then Crowley was thinking about Aziraphale’s fingers, and that suddenly made it seem quite obvious what the angel was referring to. “Oh. I’ll have to see, erm, what I’ve got going on. I’ll let you know.”

Aziraphale scoffed, a short noise that was half amused, half insulted. “Alright, then. See if you can pencil it in.”

“Angel, that’s not -- I could have things to do,” came Crowley’s weak protest.

“We both know you don’t,” Aziraphale snapped, then composed himself. “Plan for seven, then. I’ll be ready by five.”

The call had ended before Crowley had the sense to respond aloud. He rubbed his eyes aggressively, seeing swimming spots behind his eyelids. The distraction of the phone call gone, Crowley was reminded of his unresolved issue, which had been exacerbated by his conversation with Aziraphale.

“This is not sustainable,” he muttered to himself as he popped the button on his pants. The car drove on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been struggling with the pacing of this first chapter for like a month, and i'm giving up, it's good enough, y'all. the rest of this story will hopefully be better. title is from prince's "purple rain" i'm gay get used to it.  
> also, at a normal rate of driving, crowley's flat is only like ten minutes from aziraphale's place. at crowley's rate of driving, the drive would take probably less than sixty seconds, but i don't care, i'm making shit up as i go along.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> italian food. wine. awkward conversations. dolphins? more wine. it's everything you could ever wish for.

Crowley stared intently at the plate in front of him, barely a dent made in the mountain of ravioli in some kind of cream sauce. Aziraphale had been rattling off about something or other for almost the duration of their meal, but Crowley didn’t mind so much, because it kept him from saying anything ridiculous himself. He hadn’t had too much to drink, but the combination of the warmth of the restaurant with Aziraphale’s close presence and soft voice added up to something akin to intoxication. Crowley’s thoughts danced circles around his head as the angel spoke.

“My dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale lowered his brow and tilted his head to catch Crowley’s eye. “You seem distracted.”

Crowley set down the fork he had been absently chewing on, choosing to gnaw at his lower lip instead. “M’fine. Sorry, I was drifting.”

Aziraphale reached across the table to poke at Crowley’s plate, grabbing a bite of his untouched dinner. “You didn’t miss anything important, I reckon,” he said offhand. “I’ve just been rambling.”

“I don’t mind,” Crowley said, too quickly. He felt flushed and claustrophobic, like every person in the restaurant had their eyes on him and they all knew what he was thinking. This was a stressful concept, as he wasn’t entirely sure himself what he was thinking. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to leave. He loosened his tie, then thought,  _ Why am I wearing a tie? I hate ties _ , and silently vowed to burn all his ties when he got home.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, unsure whether it was appropriate to thank someone for a comment such as Crowley had made, doubly unsure as to why Crowley looked like he was trapped in an elevator. He kept his tone light and changed the subject. “D’you fancy getting dessert here?”

Crowley paused to process the question, then shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “No, I’m ready to go, if you are.”

“Very well.” Aziraphale slid two notes under his plate, massively overpaying for their meals, and stood. “My place, then?” 

This was not abnormal, and Crowley knew it was not abnormal, but he blinked in surprise. “Er - yes, I suppose,” he stammered as he followed Aziraphale out of the restaurant.

The atmosphere in the car was tense. Aziraphale continued to attempt to make conversation, but Crowley was incapable of responding in any rational sense. It was difficult, saying the right things without saying any of the wrong things. Crowley suddenly found himself in shock that he had managed to make it six thousand years without saying anything to scare off the angel, his only friend.

_ It’s only a matter of time _ , he thought, and couldn’t contain a short, bitter laugh.

“Is something… funny?” Aziraphale wrinkled his brow, fidgeted with his fingers. Avoided eye contact like the plague. 

Crowley shook his head. “No, no, no. Well, kind of. Everything’s funny, if you think about it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Neither do I.”

They sat in relative silence for several minutes. Aziraphale tried to decipher what was going on with Crowley, the same line of thought that had occupied him for the past day and a half. Crowley tried to ignore the delicious heat radiating from the angel, who was sitting entirely too close for comfort, and not nearly close enough. It was as if a switch had been flipped the previous day, the moment that Crowley had run away from the angel to avoid thinking about his emotions, and now he was utterly incapable of thinking about anything  _ but  _ his emotions. He was disgusted with himself. Aziraphale spoke up, eventually, without turning his head.

“Can you drive faster?”

Crowley really, properly laughed at that. It must have been thousands of times that Aziraphale had berated him for driving too fast, and a spot of awkward conversation had turned him around. Crowley drove faster, thinking:  _ It hasn’t been this uncomfortable between us since…  _

_ Well, since about five seconds after the first time his cock was in my mouth. _

* * *

_ FIVE MONTHS AGO _

When the dust had settled and minds had cleared somewhat, and when both parties were fully dressed, Crowley and Aziraphale were left in a tough situation. Actually, they had rather enthusiastically put themselves in the situation, but they felt very much to the contrary. Aziraphale sat on the bed, his face hot enough to fry an egg, and Crowley sat on the floor, staring at his hands as if looking up for one second would kill him.

“Do we…” Aziraphale’s voice came out raw and scratchy, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Do we need to… talk about that?”

“I think we’d better,” Crowley mumbled.

“Okay.” The rustle of fabric as Aziraphale slid off the bed, a soft  _ thud  _ as he sat facing Crowley on the floor. “How do we do that?”

“Dunno. Er.” Crowley swallowed nervously. “How do you, er, feel?” 

Aziraphale considered it very seriously for a moment. “I feel good,” he said slowly. “I think. All things considered.”

“What things are we considering, exactly?”

“Well, just…” Aziraphale floundered, stopping to collect himself. “Our friendship, and the overall… unfamiliarity of the circumstance.”

“Oh. Okay.” Crowley furrowed his brow. “So, all things considered, what now?”

“What… what now?”

Crowley looked up now, looked right into Aziraphale’s eyes, like he was trying to read a book in an alien language. He took a slow, deep breath, let his tongue flick out to wet his lips, and spoke with deliberate, calculated words. “Where do we go from here?”

Taking his time to mull it over, Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again, then closed it. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Do you want it to happen again?”

“I…think I do, yeah.”

Aziraphale looked pleased. “Alright, then. Isn’t that good enough?”

“No, angel,” Crowley sighed, “there are  _ rules _ .”

“Rules?”

“Yes, like how… far does it go, and… how often?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “It sounds like you’re building a car,” he said peevishly. “Just say what you want to say, please.”

Crowley groaned softly, rubbing his eyes. “Fine,” he said, “fine. If you and I are going to,” - he cleared his throat - “do this, then we need to be clear on what it means for us. That’s all I’m saying.”

Aziraphale shook his head, an infinitesimal movement that Crowley didn’t register. He didn’t  _ know  _ what it meant, but he knew they were in dangerous territory. He knew what he wanted it to mean. Crowley was dancing around the topic, refusing to say anything substantial, so Aziraphale decided to bite the bullet. Playing it safe, but still playing.

The problem was, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Crowley had said, before. _ I didn’t mean anything by it _ . And Aziraphale had echoed the sentiment. Trying to be casual, but now he thought maybe it had been too casual. His mind cycled through several lines of argument rapidly, until he settled on one that seemed to be the lesser of an uncountable number of evils.

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound confident, although he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice. “It’s harmless, and we both enjoy it, right? So why can’t it just be… something that we do? Like any of the other things we do.”

Crowley started slightly. “I - okay. Sure. Okay. You mean we keep… that part… purely physical? And then everything else stays the same?”

“If you like,” Aziraphale said, simple and clean. 

“What about, erm, other people? I mean, being with other people?” The demon was biting his lip so hard that Aziraphale feared he might draw blood.

_ I don’t want anyone but you _ , is what Aziraphale thought but didn’t say. Instead, he focused on slowing his heartbeat, keeping his voice steady and calm, before speaking diplomatically. “Everything else stays the same.”

“Okay, then.” Crowley nodded pensively. He didn’t say  _ I haven’t slept with anyone else _ . He didn’t say  _ I want you all to myself _ . He held his tongue and extended a businesslike hand to the angel.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand firmly, gave one quick shake, and dropped it.

* * *

_ PRESENT DAY _

Once they were out of the car and nestled in the back room of the bookshop, pleasantly warm and more than a little drunk, the atmosphere thawed marginally. Aziraphale began anxiously babbling about a book he’d found, and what the book contained, and a tangentially related anecdote about a woman he met at the store, and somewhere along the way it transitioned into comfortable territory. Crowley nodded along with Aziraphale’s stories, attempting to follow the angel’s line of thought, although he was rather lost in his own mind.

Aziraphale hit the table with his fist, just hard enough to be jarring. “What d’you think about  _ that _ ?”

Crowley flinched, blinked slowly and looked up from the glass of wine he’d been absently watching. “Sorry, what were you saying? Something about dolphins?” 

Aziraphale shook his head in annoyance, but let it go. “Was gonna tell you about this nature docu-documentary I saw. D’you know about documentaries? Amazing, they are.”

“Yeah. You have one brilliant idea like television, and they go and ruin it by making it all educational and such. Disgrace.” Crowley actually very much enjoyed nature documentaries, not to mention every other kind of documentary, but he was still slightly irritated on the principle that one of his proudest accomplishments had been perverted for the better by humanity.    
Aziraphale ignored him. "The dolphins, right. You remember the dolphins? They're funny buggers, they are. Get up to all kinds of trouble down in the ocean. Not enough supervision, I think."   
Crowley nodded. "No angels down there to let em know what's what," he said sagely.   
"Exactly. But they're dolphins, see, it doesn't matter what they do. All kinds of fun, and no punishment. Must be nice, you think?"   
"What sort of fun?" Asked Crowley, who knew perfectly well about all the things that dolphins did, but wanted to hear Aziraphale talk about it anyway.

“They do origami,” Aziraphale stated with pride.

“Do not,” Crowley protested.

“No, they do, I heard it.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Couldn't have. They don't do origami, paper wouldn't even survive that long underwater.”

“What are you saying, paper?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Where's paper come in?”

“Origami. Japanese paper folding thing.” 

Aziraphale turned this over in his head for a moment. “Maybe something else then,” he said softly. “They swim to Oregon?”

“Fairly sure they don't.”

“They don't have organs?”

“I’m positive they do.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Then, louder: “ _ Oh! _ ” He blushed a bright pink and snapped his mouth shut for a moment. The alcohol was enough to keep him talking, but it was not enough to stop his embarrassment. “It was  _ orgies _ ,” he said sheepishly.

“Ah,” Crowley said with a nod. “Yes, dolphins, and their…orgies.”

Aziraphale let out a small sigh and swallowed the rest of his wine. He refilled his glass nearly to the brim before speaking again. “Anyway, it was an interesting program. Learned a bit.”

Crowley chuckled quietly, draining his own glass. When he extended a hand wordlessly, Aziraphale gave him the bottle of wine, their fingers brushing against each other in the exchange. The smallest, lightest touch, an everyday touch. Crowley raised the bottle to his lips, leaving his empty glass to sit on the table, and took several long gulps. 

“S’good,” he said vaguely, not looking at Aziraphale. “Good wine.”

“Crowley, what is going on with you?” The angel’s tone rode the line between concern and irritation.

“Hm? Nothing.”

The angel scoffed. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, “it’s insulting.”

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, but offered no other solace.

Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s leg with his foot, leading the demon to look up at him. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said firmly. 

“Nuh, s’fine.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, pursed his lips. “But there  _ is  _ something wrong,” he said, not a question.

“S’pose it depends,” Crowley said, his voice low and pensive. “I mean, you’ve got an idea of wrongness, I’ve got an idea of wrongness. Something wrong, objectively? Dunno.”

Aziraphale heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded. He made a show of setting his jaw and saying nothing.

“Is something wrong with  _ you _ , angel?”

The angel sniffed. “No, why would something be wrong with me? I’m behaving normally.”

“You never behave normally,” Crowley said without thinking, a hint of fondness in his tone.

“Well, sure,” Aziraphale conceded, “but I’m behaving like myself, which is more than I can say for you.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, almost whispering. “It scares me, when you don’t talk to me.”

Crowley blinked. “I — I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I just want you to be honest with me.”

“I am being honest,” Crowley lied.

“I just…” Aziraphale closed his eyes, inhaling deeply to steady his voice. “You have to think about how it looks from my end, Crowley. You acting all jumpy and distant and telling me nothing is wrong, as if I’m meant to believe that. Have I done something to upset you?”

“No!” Crowley shot up straight in his chair and put a hand up in protest, nearly knocking over the entire table. “No, angel, of course you haven’t. It’s not — I mean, if I’m — it’s just me, and my stuff, and I shouldn’t let it affect you. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes burning with the threat of tears. “We’re friends.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley murmured, “we are.”

“If I wanted you to keep your personal issues out of our friendship, then we wouldn’t  _ be  _ friends.”

“There’s no issue, Aziraphale, really,” Crowley insisted. “Please stop pushing it.” 

The angel blew out a long breath. “Okay. But you have to promise me that you’re not bottling it up for my sake.”

“I promise I’m not,” Crowley said without pause. He thought about how he could spin it so that it was the truth, although as a demon, lying to an angel was probably an upside. It didn’t feel like an upside, it felt dirty and wrong.

Aziraphale gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, concerned and confused, but satisfied enough to drop the subject for now. He glanced at the clock on the wall and thought in silence for a moment. “Are you going to stay the night?” he asked eventually, idly staring at his fingers tapping on the table to avoid eye contact.

“Mm,” Crowley hummed noncommittally, thought for a moment, and added, “yeah.”

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale said, sounding hurt.

Crowley shook his head, reached across the table to still the angel’s nervous hands. Guilt settled heavily in his stomach as he looked at Aziraphale, saw how anxious and frazzled he looked, and realized that he had been the one to cause it. Of course his vehement denial wasn’t reassuring; it was selfish and unconvincing. He lifted the angel’s chin up to look into his eyes, deep and burning.

“No, I want to,” he said slowly, sincerely. “I really do.”

“Alright, then,” Aziraphale said, still apprehensive, but warming quickly to the mood. He grabbed the wine and downed the rest of it, placing the empty bottle on the table, with all the other empty bottles. “That was the last of the wine,” he said, knowing full well that either one of them could obtain more wine if they wanted. “D’you want to head upstairs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [makes you wait two fucking months for chapter two]  
> [it's just more tension-building bullshit]  
> this is why everybody hates me! anyway this chapter was super difficult for some reason, unexpectedly, just like the first one, actually, hope they're not all like that, yikes. i have the whole thing planned out and i'm gonna do it if it kills me, don't worry.  
> also! that convo about the dolphins: a) has been in my drafts for forever without context, waiting for me to write something where it could feasibly be shoved in, b) is definitely about "dolphins: spy in the pod," a two-part bbc nature series narrated by david tennant, and hands down THE funniest documentary i've ever seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an afternoon at the park, trying to pretend things are normal.

“Remind me,” Crowley said idly as he picked at the grass around him, “did you know Rumi?” 

Aziraphale sniffed and shook his head. “No,” he muttered, “I was in Italy at the time.”

“Ah, right. Because of the… yeah.” The demon looked around, taking in the sight of the few people who were in proximity. 

“I didn’t actually have anything to do with it,” Aziraphale said, not quite defensive. “They just wanted me there, you know.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his soft voice full of understanding.

“I’m only saying, because if  _ you’d  _ been in Europe around that time, I might have suspected your involvement.” The angel paused, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “Not now, I mean, but… back then.”

“I know,” Crowley repeated, “and that’s fair. But I saw so much of the fallout, I never would’ve thought it was one of yours.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “You don’t think Above could come up with something as horrible as the Crusades?”

“No,” Crowley said, “I don’t think  _ you  _ could.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and averted his gaze. They sat in silence for a short while, Crowley ripping grass out of the ground and people-watching, Aziraphale absently throwing rolled oats to the ducks. Crowley had read an article online that said that bread was harmful to birds, had insisted that they switch to something else, and Aziraphale had obliged all too willingly. Crowley had also developed a habit of sitting on the ground instead of their well-loved bench, running his fingers through the grass like a lover’s hair, carefully picking the odd wildflower and keeping it safe in his breast pocket until he could get home to press it. Aziraphale caved after two weeks of this and joined Crowley in the grass, if only to be closer to him. 

“Do you remember that time when we were at the pub with Marlowe and Shakespeare?” The angel broke the silence eventually, adopting a tone of gentle curiosity. “When you broke the chair?”

“Course I do,” Crowley said without hesitating. “Why?”

“Was thinking of something Kit said,” Aziraphale replied airily. “About you.”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley let a hint of venom creep into his voice, “what exactly did dear old  _ Kit  _ say about me?”

* * *

_1591_

Christopher Marlowe set his beer down on a rickety wooden table and took a deep breath. “The thing is, Will, it’s not exactly original, is it? Three plays about the same dead king. S’like you don’t have any ideas of your own.”

“I’ve got plenty of ideas,” Will retorted. “Just because I haven’t told you about ‘em doesn’t mean I don’t have ‘em.”

“Sure, you’ve got ideas like I’ve got a wife.” Kit nudged Aziraphale’s leg under the table with his foot, shooting the angel a meaningful look.

Crowley glowered, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Why don’t you go find one, Marlowe? I heard there’s an eligible maiden at the bottom of the Thames.”

Aziraphale kicked him, hard, and then mitigated the blow with a shameful glance at the demon. He hadn’t meant to do that, he’d claim later, and Crowley would pretend to believe him. For now, Crowley just said  _ Ouch _ and crossed his legs to get out of Aziraphale’s reach.

“So, Will,” the angel said, diverting attention away from Crowley’s foul mood, “what sort of ideas have you got, then?”

“I was considering branching out into comedy.” The playwright took a hearty swig of beer and flashed a grin. “I was thinking, you know what’s awfully funny? Twins.”

Crowley sneered. “What’s funny about twins?”

“Well, it’s like…” Will floundered for a moment before he caught his train of thought. “They’re two different people, right, but they look the same. Anything could happen.”

“Guess I don’t understand comedy,” the demon mumbled, rolling his eyes.

Will took two empty glasses and set them on the table next to each other. “It's like this, right. You've got two kids —”

“Kids aren't funny,” Crowley interrupted, “they're just difficult.”

“Yes, well, this is hypothetical.”

“I don't like them hypothetically, either.”

Aziraphale shot the demon a deadly glare, then turned to the playwright with a smile. “That’s an idea with a lot of potential, Will, I’m anxious to see what you do with it.”

Crowley stood up abruptly. “‘Scuse me for a mo,” he muttered, pushing the chair out of his way with such force that he knocked it over. He didn’t wait for a response from any of his companions before leaving, walking out the door of the pub without looking back.

“Sorry — I should — I’ll be back.” Aziraphale nodded apologetically at the two astonished playwrights and ran after Crowley.

He found the demon about ten feet from the door of the pub, slouched against the wall of an alley. It was dirty, but there wasn’t anywhere that wasn’t dirty, really, so Aziraphale sat next to him, making a mental note to burn these clothes later. He placed a hand on Crowley’s knee tentatively, as if the cloth of the demon's trousers might bite him.

“D’you want to talk about it?”

“Hnh,” Crowley grunted. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s got you upset,” Aziraphale answered.

“M’not upset. Nothin’ to talk about.”

The angel sighed deeply, shaking his head. “If you’re not upset,” he said testily, “then you have no excuse for the way you’ve been treating your friends.”

Crowley let out a bitter laugh. “I just call it how I see it.”

“No, you’re being a miserable git, and I won’t stand for it.” Aziraphale paused, waiting to see if Crowley would apologize, before speaking again. “You owe Kit and Will an apology, and I think you owe me an explanation.”

“There’s nothing to explain, angel!” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with wild eyes. “They’re prats, they’re acting like prats, I needed a break from it, is all.”

The angel narrowed his eyes, hurt and suspicion written on his face. “They haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “They’re acting the same as always.”

“Go be with them, then, if I’m so horrible to be around.”

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale snapped. He leaned in, burning the demon with his intense gaze. “You’re my friend,” he said, soft and sincere.

Crowley's eyes flitted to the angel's mouth, a terrifyingly intimate distance between them. He swallowed the urge that sprung up inside him and pulled back slightly, cocking an eyebrow. “They’re your friends, too.”

“You know it’s not the same.”

_ Of course it’s not the same _ , Crowley thought,  _ because you’re fucking both of them _ . He said nothing.

“I’m going to go back,” Aziraphale said after a long silence. “You can feel free to do the same, if you’re ready to act like a civilized person.” He stood and watched Crowley for a moment, half expecting him to get up, but the demon stayed put, avoiding eye contact. Aziraphale scoffed, sniffed, and then he was gone.

The angel swept into the pub with an easy calm, giving a reassuring smile toward the two men whose heads perked up when he walked in. “Gentlemen, do please excuse the interruption,” he said, bending to pick up Crowley’s chair. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Will looked far more concerned than he ought to be.

Aziraphale smiled again, gestured to the chair. “Nothing, it’s just — one of these legs is cracked. No matter, I’ll pay to have it replaced.”

“That man is infuriating sometimes,” Kit said. His voice took on a contemplative, airy quality as he continued, “He certainly is passionate, but…”

“But what?” Aziraphale had stopped in his tracks to hear what Kit had to say.

The playwright shook his head fondly. “I just fear that he has a soft spot for you,” he said, “and I don’t know what he’d do if one were to press on it too hard.”

* * *

_PRESENT DAY_

Crowley stared at the grass by his foot, his hands folded tight in his lap, nails digging into skin. He made a great effort to unclench his jaw, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and turned to Aziraphale. 

“Marlowe said all that, did he?”

“Please don’t be like that,” murmured Aziraphale. “He never did anything to you. I still don’t know what your issue is with the both of them.”

“No issue,” Crowley said with the well-worn tone of one who had protested this many times before. “Just not their biggest fan.”

“They were brilliant, and you know it.”

Crowley nodded. He watched as a young boy a short distance away tripped over his shoelace, quickly recovered, and went back to running around. “No, yeah, of course they were,” he said absently. “I just mean on a personal level.”

“I don’t understand that, either,” Aziraphale persisted. “They were our friends.”

“Yes, well, they certainly were fond of  _ you _ ,” Crowley said bitterly. 

“This isn’t about me,” Aziraphale said quickly, then paused. “...Is it?” He thought over this possibility, chewing on his lip. “If you were — if it was  _ jealousy _ , then… Why?”

Crowley inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. “Jealousy is shallow and reductive,” he said calmly. “Why are we talking about this?”

Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment, formulating his thoughts carefully into words. “I was just… I was thinking about how much you’ve changed.”

“Have I?” Crowley’s eye returned to the boy, and he noted with slight relief that there was an adult with him, a young woman, possibly his mother. She was giving him a juice box.

“Mhm,” the angel nodded, oblivious to Crowley’s distraction. “You used to be so  _ angry  _ all the time. It worried me a lot, back then.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Aziraphale rested a comforting hand on the demon’s thigh, squeezing gently. “Now, you’re sadder, I think.”

Crowley furrowed his brow, frowning, and turned back to face Aziraphale. “I’m not,” he said earnestly, covering the angel’s hand with his own. 

Aziraphale smiled at him and gave a comforting nod. Crowley returned the smile, until his head turned at the sound of a desperate, weary voice saying, “Robbie,  _ please _ .” Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, but he certainly noticed when a small, excited boy popped up in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere. 

He was shockingly blond, with round, red cheeks, and his lips were chapped. He held his juice box by his side at an angle that dripped juice on the ground, slowly but steadily.

“I can run really fast,” he said proudly. “Wanna see?”

Crowley smiled at him and nodded reflexively. “Yeah, that would be great,” he said. “Do me a favor, though — could you run back in that direction?” He pointed to the exhausted young woman who was trying to catch up with the boy. “Don’t want you to get too far from mum, do we?”

“Mmm…okay,” said Robbie, and then he was a Robbie-shaped blur, bolting off in the direction of his mother.

Aziraphale had whiplash from the whole thing, but he smiled at Crowley. “That was very good of you,” he said. 

“Seems like a sweet kid.” Crowley's response caught him off guard as much as it did Aziraphale. No justifications, no protestations, no attempt to downplay the selflessness of his actions. He blinked several times in succession.

The angel's smile widened as he raised his eyebrows, somewhat amused. “I didn't know you could put those words together in that order.”

“Hey, I handled the fake antichrist for eleven years, didn't I?”

“Yes, but he was awful.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Never was there occasion for anybody to refer to Warlock as a  _ sweet kid _ .”

Crowley shrugged, his eyes still on the boy. “Maybe that’s why you’ve never heard me say it, then.”

Following the demon’s gaze, Aziraphale watched as Robbie pulled at his mother’s sleeve, babbling excitedly. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but they saw him start to drag her over while she shook her head and laughed. He stopped in front of them again, holding his arm out as if presenting them on a game show. 

“See, mummy, I  _ told  _ you I saw two boys holding hands!”

At this, Aziraphale and Crowley instantly retracted their hands, folding them primly in their respective laps, exchanged a furtive glance, and moved several inches apart. The woman smiled at them, embarrassed, and gave a small wave before turning back to her son. 

“Yes, love, I see them,” she murmured, “but we’re being rather rude. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

The boy nodded solemnly and looked at Crowley and Aziraphale, very serious. “My name is Robert,” he said, his voice pitched down just enough to sound silly. “It is very nice to meet you, gentlemen.” He grinned, satisfied with his introduction, and then added as an afterthought, in his regular voice, “This is my mum. She can’t run very fast.”

“Okay, I think we’ve bothered the men enough,” the mother said, her face flushing pink. “Sorry, he gets excited sometimes. We’ll be on our way.”

“No bother at all, my dear,” Aziraphale said with forced cheer. 

Crowley nodded in agreement. “It’s been our pleasure.”

Robbie and his mother began to walk away, but the boy turned back after a few seconds. “Are you  _ married _ ?” he asked, eyes sparkling with wonder.

“Sure, why not,” Crowley replied with a grin. 

The boy gasped softly and continued walking. Aziraphale waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Crowley and asking, with no malice, “Why did you say that?” 

Crowley looked at the angel, cocked his head to the side and responded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I thought it would make him happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> call it fluff, filler, unnecessarily lengthy characterization, an excuse to write crowley interacting with a child (again), also an excuse to write shakespeare and marlowe. all of this was planned well in advance as part of this story, but the end product turned out a lot more self-indulgent than i thought it would. anyway, we're riding this tension, babey, no resolution we hide our feelings like immortal ethereal beings. jk there will be resolution eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two drunk idiots run away from their feelings, Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that a&c tend to drink a lot in general, but special warning for this chapter for notably excessive alcohol consumption and very brief discussion of the mental and physical issues that can cause and/or be caused by that.  
> these boys keep making me very sad; i wish they would stop doing that!

Aziraphale stared at a blank sheet of paper, a fountain pen poised ceremoniously in his hand, and heaved a loud sigh of frustration. He had thought it would be a good idea to write a letter — the old-fashioned approach, he reasoned, had not failed him yet. Or at least, it hadn't usually failed him. Well, it hadn't always failed him. It was what he knew.

Then again, he thought as he began his fifth hour of sitting and writing nothing, perhaps it was best to talk to Crowley on his terms. An almost undetectable shift in his body language. A cryptic joke muttered under his breath. An emoji, maybe.

It occurred to him that he could do what he really _wanted_ to do — he could go to Crowley's flat right now and say nothing at all. If he did what he wanted to do, words wouldn't be necessary. But there was always the thought, the niggling little voice in the back of his head that said it wasn't a risk worth taking. That the idea of really, truly _having_ Crowley was not worth the possibility of losing him.

The angel was startled out of his thoughts by a loud, shrill buzzing noise. It took him a bit of fumbling and panicking before he realized it was his alarm clock, and another moment to remember why he’d set an alarm. He did have to go see Crowley, not for the reasons he was contemplating, but because they had plans. Aziraphale had accidentally let it slip a few days earlier that he’d never seen a James Bond movie, and Crowley was distraught, so now he was forcing the angel to engage in what he called a “movie marathon.”

Aziraphale didn’t put up much of a fight, mostly because he was really in the mood for some normalcy, and it was difficult to have an awkward conversation — or, Heaven forbid, an argument — while watching a movie. Crowley positively hated when Aziraphale tried to talk to him during a movie, even when they weren’t at the cinema, and just this once, Aziraphale figured it could work to his advantage.

He gave one last hateful glance in the direction of the mocking blank paper on his desk, then shrugged on his coat and made for Crowley’s flat.

 

Aziraphale was at the flat, hand poised to knock, when Crowley flung the door open, using a bit too much force, causing the doorknob to hit the wall with a dull _thud_. Aziraphale winced at the noise, and again upon taking in the sight of Crowley.

The demon was wearing one of his trademark sharp suits, but he was looking anything but sharp. His shirt was wrinkled and half-buttoned, his hair disheveled, his jacket hung over the back of the sofa, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, and he was wearing one sock. He flashed a lopsided smile at the angel, who stepped inside the flat and closed the door behind him.

“Hey, Azsss — angel, hello,” Crowley slurred.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked, as gently as he could manage while also being rather annoyed.

Crowley shrugged. “Not a bit. Jussst a lot. No, wait.”

“I see,” the angel said, his voice flat, and decided to change the subject. “Well, what movie are we going to watch first? Is there a specific order?”

Crowley made his way over to the couch, where he flopped down unceremoniously, before seeing that he had left the remote control just out of reach on the coffee table. He reached for it pathetically for a few moments, whining when he realized he would have to get up to grab it. Before he could pick himself up, Aziraphale dropped the remote on his chest, then took a seat on the other end of the couch, tucking his legs up underneath his body so that his feet were centimeters away from Crowley’s.

“Mm, thanks,” the demon said as he concentrated on steadying his vision enough to work his high-tech television. He muttered under his breath, talking himself through the process. “Not that one. Just have to — and then — okay, there, I think. Oh, the volume — alright, good.” He looked up at Aziraphale with a satisfied grin.

“This had better be good,” the angel mumbled.

Crowley nodded his head as the opening credits began. “It is, angel, trust me.”

The film was not necessarily to Aziraphale’s tastes, but the action and the noise was a welcome distraction from the fact that Crowley continued to drink through the entire thing. Aziraphale knew Crowley wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually _hurt_ himself by drinking to excess, not stupid enough to get alcohol poisoning, but the volume that he imbibed was concerning, if only because it was likely a reflection of his mental state. He had offered a drink to Aziraphale, which the angel had accepted, because being sober around a drunk Crowley was not one of his favorite pastimes, but the demon was still several bottles ahead of him.

Aziraphale found himself throughout the film drawn back to this line of thought like a magnet. He pretended to watch as Sean Connery crawled through air vents, but he was entirely preoccupied with Crowley’s behavior. Things were alright the other day at the park, he thought, and he couldn’t imagine why Crowley had been running so hot and cold, for weeks now, and refusing to talk about it.

When the movie ended, Aziraphale looked over at Crowley for the first time in two hours and found a pair of lazy yellow eyes staring back at him.

“I don’t think I entirely followed the plot of that film,” Aziraphale tried for normal conversation, as casually and innocently as he could manage. “Could you walk me through it, dear?”

Crowley pushed himself up to sit cross-legged facing the angel. “Yeah, well, you see,” he began, “it’s like — he’s a spy, you know? And then there’s the bad guys, and they try to kill the other guys, and _who cares?_ ”

“Pardon?”

Crowley paused. Although he was unabashedly staring at the angel’s mouth, he was wrapped up in his feelings, thinking about Aziraphale’s kindness, his warmth, the fact that he was _right there_ and Crowley could just say it, right now, and what’s the worst that could happen? But he didn’t, because he knew the worst that could happen, and it was an unbearable thought.

“Who cares about the movie?” he repeated. “You don’t care. I don’t care.”

Aziraphale floundered for a moment, confused. “You practically begged me to watch these films with you,” he reminded the demon. “I was sure you were on the brink of threatening blackmail if I didn’t watch them.”

“I don’t give a shit about the movies,” Crowley insisted, ignoring the fact that Aziraphale was right. Then he leaned forward, bracing both hands on the angel’s shoulders, and kissed him.

Aziraphale reciprocated without hesitation, as if it were a reflex, something hardwired into his physiology. They were both drunk, Crowley drastically more so, and the kiss quickly evolved into something deep and messy and burning. The demon maneuvered his body to straddle Aziraphale’s lap, pressing in until their bodies were nearly flush against each other. He moved his hands from the angel’s shoulders to his cheeks, gently cradling Aziraphale’s face as he continued to deepen the kiss.

The angel let out a small, involuntary moan, his own hands gravitating toward Crowley’s hips, pulling him in closer. Even given the perfect distraction, Aziraphale still worried in the back of his mind about the demon’s strange behavior. This kiss was different, he thought, than the others. More passionate, more desperate. More like the first time.

Crowley broke the kiss finally, pulling back just a few inches, and fixed a shining, burning gaze on Aziraphale. He tried valiantly to slow his breathing and his heartbeat. Still holding the angel’s face in his hands, he stared deep into his eyes, intense, pensive, searching for something.

“What are we doing here?” Aziraphale broke the silence, broke the spell.

Crowley started slightly, dropping his hands from the angel’s face. “Just… what we’ve _been_ doing,” he said lamely. His mind quickly caught up to the moment, however, and he began trying to unbutton Aziraphale’s shirt.

“It’s not, though,” Aziraphale said. “Something’s different.”

“Nothing’s different.” Crowley leaned in again to place a sloppy open-mouthed kiss on the angel’s throat, still trying to work his shirt buttons. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s flushed skin.

The angel groaned, shaking his head. “Crowley,” he said meaningfully, gently pushing the demon back to see his face. “What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, but I want you to tell me.”

Crowley inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. “I’m _trying_ to get off. Are you happy now?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said bluntly. “Anyway, I’m not — I don’t think now is a good time for… that.”

Crowley pouted, cocking his head. “Why not?”

“My dear, would you consider sobering up?”

“Don’t wanna.”

Aziraphale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t have a proper conversation if you’re in this state,” he said irritably.

“M’not trying to have a _conversation_ ,” Crowley whined, dropping his forehead to rest on the angel’s shoulder.

Aziraphale groaned. He was usually not one to deny himself simple pleasures, and his physical body was loudly protesting his obstinance while his mind was processing his hurt and confusion. It was all rather dissonant. A small, rage-filled part of him screamed that Crowley was a liar and a coward, that he couldn’t keep doing this to Aziraphale, acting out and then pretending nothing was wrong, that it wasn’t fair.

A much larger part of him was thinking about Crowley still in his lap, Crowley’s hot breath dancing across the bare skin of his chest, Crowley’s hips grinding down against his. He was thinking about how needy and desperate the demon was, and how badly he wanted to give in, to succumb to his advances right now and worry about his feelings later. He was thinking about Crowley’s mouth, a _lot_.

The dominant part of him, however, just felt sorry for Crowley. He had known the demon long enough to know that whatever was causing him to behave like this, it had to be big. Crowley didn’t just get plastered out of his mind and throw himself at Aziraphale on a daily basis, even with the relatively recent turn their relationship had taken. It was a cry for help, and the angel didn’t know how to help him.

“My dear boy,” he murmured, “can’t we just put on the next movie?”

Crowley lifted his head to look at Aziraphale, confounded. He furrowed his brow and frowned deeply, saying nothing.

Aziraphale pressed on. “You did invite me over to watch movies,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I did,” the demon said slowly. “It’s a classic seduction move, angel.”

“If you wanted to have sex,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley suppressed the little jolt in his gut at the angel saying the word, “you should have said so. But you insisted upon my seeing these films, and I’m committed to it.”

Crowley scoffed, looking away to hide the flush creeping down his neck. Despite being fully clothed, he felt rather exposed, and quite embarrassed. Aziraphale was making sense, and Crowley knew it, but it felt like a stone-cold rejection. He climbed off of the angel’s lap, moving gingerly, and sat on the other end of the couch with his arms wrapped around his knees.

Aziraphale felt like he was lacking something, without Crowley touching him. He suppressed a shiver and swallowed the urge to button up his shirt. It wouldn’t help, with the cold or the situation.

“Why don’t we… take a rain check?” he said softly, trying to be as sensitive to Crowley’s feelings as he could manage. “This is clearly not going how either of us imagined it would. I can go, if you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Of course,” he murmured, “but I think we want different things right now. So it might be best to try this again some other time.”

“Okay,” Crowley mumbled, blinking back unwanted tears. “You don’t have to go,” he added.

“It’s fine,” the angel said airily. He stood from the couch, reaching for Crowley’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Are you going to be alright, my dear?”

“Yeah,” Crowley responded numbly.

“Promise me you won’t drink yourself to death.”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale sighed. “We’ll talk later, yes?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

 _This is the part where I would say ‘I love you’_ , Aziraphale thought as he walked across the flat to the door, _and he would say it back, if life were fair_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath of a poorly-executed movie marathon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't want to get anyone's hopes TOO high, but this is the chapter which contains the infamous "az fockn snaps" that's been in my outline and the subject of legend for months. so like, spoilers: az is gonna fockn Snap.

Crowley woke up on his sofa, on a day that he presumed ended in Y, with far too much sunlight streaming in the windows. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes and taking several deep breaths to suppress the nausea bubbling up in his gut. After several long minutes, he reasoned that he may as well get up, and his groggy mind was not in any state to recognize how weak this reasoning was.

He had a doctrine about hangovers, one that Aziraphale had told him many, many times was absolutely ridiculous, but that he stuck by nonetheless. The principle was something along the lines of, if he drank to excess and forgot to sober up, that was his own damn fault and he deserved the hangover. And as such, he simply refused to use any infernal powers to rid himself of it, opting instead to whine and moan about it until it subsided. A matter of honor, he said. This was the first hangover in a while that he was left to deal with by himself, and he found that whining and moaning was not nearly as fulfilling without Aziraphale around to make him tea and tell him to shut up.

Making his way to the bathroom, Crowley found his mobile balanced precariously on the edge of the sink. He didn’t remember how it had gotten there, but he also didn’t particularly care. What was more pressing was what he saw when he unlocked the phone.

First, he’d been asleep for about two and a half days. This was not outrageously abnormal for him, but usually he at least saw fit to warn Aziraphale that he was going to be unreachable. He had not done that this time, as was made abundantly clear by the nineteen missed calls and twelve text messages from the angel.

Seeing the calls and texts brought his last interaction with Aziraphale rushing back to the forefront of his mind, and his knees buckled under the weight of his sheer mortification. The angel had not left any voicemails, which was a small blessing, because Crowley didn’t think he could handle hearing that voice right now. He had the presence of mind to walk to the bedroom and sit down on the soft carpet before reading the texts Aziraphale had sent.

 

 **_Sunday 9:22 AM – angel✨_ **:  How are you feeling this morning? Care for lunch later?

 **_Sunday 1:34 PM – angel✨_ **:  I could bring something by, if you’re not keen on leaving the flat today.

 **_Sunday 8:27 PM – angel✨_ **:  Crowley, are you alright?

 **_Sunday 11:53 PM – angel✨_ **:  I’m sure you’re fine, but I would appreciate some kind of confirmation.

 **_Monday 3:45 AM – angel✨_ **:  Please say something.

 **_Monday 10:24 AM – angel✨_ **:  Crowley.

 **_Monday 2:19 PM – angel✨_ **:  I think you’re upset with me, and I’m trying to give you room, but I really don’t know what to do here. Would you at least tell me if you want to be left alone?

 **_Monday 9:41 PM – angel✨_ **:  I should think we would be past this by now. Can’t you just talk to me?

 **_Monday 11:33 PM – angel✨_ **:  Crowley, please.

 **_Tuesday 1:47 AM – angel✨_ **:  I just want to be sure you’re okay.

 **_Tuesday 2:13 AM – angel✨_ **:  My dear boy, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye on everything, and things have been a bit tilted lately, but I do worry. Time was, you could disappear for weeks or months on end and it would hardly be cause for concern, but that’s not how it is now. I don’t really know how it is now. I just know I haven’t heard from you in two days, and I don’t like the way we left things. Please call me.

 **_Tuesday 8:39 AM – angel✨_ **:  You really are insufferable.

 

Crowley looked at the time. It was almost noon. He buried his face in his hands and heaved a sigh so pathetic that all of his plants lost a little bit of respect for him. This was not the end of the world – he knew it wasn’t, seeing as he’d been there before – but he felt profoundly horrid about the whole situation.

Thinking it might be a good idea to be in a more solid state of mind before he spoke to Aziraphale, but not really willing to get up from his position on the soft, inviting carpet, Crowley manifested some food from his kitchen. He tried valiantly to nibble at the butter croissant, to take small sips of coffee, but his stomach turned every time he swallowed. He had a sinking feeling that it had little to do with the food, or even his hangover.

Crowley contemplated the possibility of getting up to take a shower; he could just clean himself up with a thought right here, but the thought of standing under a scalding stream of water was somewhat appealing at the moment. His contemplation took him down many winding roads in his mind, all of which brought him back to Aziraphale, somehow. He was still in the stage of self-loathing, hadn’t yet progressed to even _beginning_ to think about how to respond to the angel, when his phone started ringing.

For the briefest of moments, he considered not picking up; what was one more missed call? Crowley shook that thought out of his head, reminding himself that he _did_ owe Aziraphale an explanation, that he _had_ behaved horribly. He decided now was as good a time as any to break one of his own rules, so he rearranged a few molecules in his body to quash the worst of his hangover before answering the phone.

“Angel,” Crowley said, already sounding apologetic, and he heard a clatter that he assumed was the sound of Aziraphale nearly dropping his phone.

“Crowley, thank – oh, I’m so glad you picked up.” There was the sound of a sharp breath, and Crowley could have sworn he heard the angel’s mood shift. “I do hope you’ve got a good excuse.”

“No excuses, angel, just… I’m sorry.”

“Where have you _been_?”

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Been right here,” he said. “Sleeping.”

“Sleeping.” The angel’s voice was laden with so much venom, it made Crowley wince.

“Yeah. Just. Had a lot of, er, alcohol to sleep off.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said pointedly, “I noticed.”

Crowley took a deep breath to steady his voice and curled in on himself, hugging his knees tight to his chest. “I am sorry, Aziraphale, really. I didn’t mean to worry you. I should have said something.”

“You didn’t mean to worry me,” the angel echoed, his voice hollow.

“Er, yeah.”

“You should have said something.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you realize how dreadfully stupid that sounds?”

“Erm. No, I suppose I don’t.” Crowley paused, every muscle in his body tensed. “It’s the truth.”

When Aziraphale spoke again, his voice had risen. It might have been shouting, but he maintained the stony tenor of his voice; it was more a loud lecture, in the angel’s typical style. “You should have _said something_ two weeks ago, you absolute – I cannot believe I have to explain this to you.”

“Explain what?”

“Shut up, Crowley,” the angel snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get to blow me off. You don’t get to ignore me. You don’t get to behave as if a parasite has invaded your brain, and then brush it off when I ask you about it. You don’t get to disappear off the face of the earth for two days without telling me. Not after six thousand bloody years.”

Crowley took advantage of Aziraphale’s pause for breath to interject. “I don’t know why it matters so much, to go two days without talking. Two days isn’t much.”

“I just want you to understand,” said the angel, “that your actions affect me. That you’re important to me.”

“I understand that.” Crowley swallowed nervously. “You’re important to me, too.”

“Yes, well, you might want to start acting like it.”

“I…” Crowley floundered, all of the words floating to the surface of his mind sounding inadequate. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Aziraphale breathed down the line for a few quiet seconds before speaking. “I want you to come here.”

“You – why?”

“Crowley,” the angel said, and all the rancor in his voice had evaporated. “It’s been a while since we’ve properly – well, I miss you.”

Crowley screwed his eyes shut tight, thrown by the sudden shift in tone. “That’s a bit, er, euphemistic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Alright, then, no euphemisms. We’ve not gone further than a quick handjob in nearly three weeks, and I _want_ you. Can we try to get back to normal?”

“You think if we have sex, it’ll make everything okay again?”

Aziraphale sighed. “No,” he said, exasperated. “I think I want everything to be okay, and I want to have sex, and one of those goals seems a lot more easily achieved at the moment.”

Crowley slumped back, sliding down the wall until he was close to lying on the floor completely. He gave his head a vigorous shake, stood up, walked over to the mirror. Changed his clothes and cleaned himself up with a small wave of his hand. “Okay,” he said quietly, “I’m on my way.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so much is happening but very little is actually happening.

Aziraphale looked at the clock for the fourth time in ten seconds. It had not changed. He looked down at his hands on his lap, inspecting his nails and his cuticles, which also had not changed. He looked up hopefully at the door of the bookshop, which had somehow found a way to become even _more_ unchanged than it had been at the previous glance. Shaking his head, he breathed a rattling sigh and looked at the clock again.

 _The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men gang aft agley_ , a quiet thought reminded him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I am not a mouse,” he muttered to the empty room, “or a man.”

The particular scheme that he had laid was rather rudimentary, but with Crowley on his way over, the hard part was ahead of him. Aziraphale was not _nervous_ about it so much as restless for it to get underway. He checked the clock again. It was still stuck in the longest minute since time was invented. Nearly resigned to the fact that he was in his own personal purgatory here for an unfathomable length of time, he looked to the door once more, and was briefly convinced he was imagining it when it opened with a creak.

Seeing Crowley’s face, he quickly realized that he was not hallucinating anything, that Crowley was here, and he had to take action. He stood and crossed the room in a few long strides. Without words, Aziraphale had one hand wrapped around the back of the demon’s neck, the other settled firmly on the small of his back, and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

After a muffled noise of surprise, Crowley melted into his touch, twining his arms around the angel’s neck, parting his lips. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to get down to it so quickly; in fact, he’d expected to be berated for a bit before anything else. But Aziraphale’s tongue was in his mouth, and Aziraphale’s hands were steadily migrating to his hips, and Aziraphale was maneuvering their bodies together to push them toward the back room.

Crowley thought distantly that this seemed too easy, that he ought to be at least slightly on guard, but all of his less-distant thoughts drowned out his apprehension. Those thoughts were concerned with the angelic hands working in earnest to remove his clothes, pushing him down onto a well-stuffed armchair, tilting his chin up to prolong the contact between their lips. Those hands, Crowley thought, were certainly multi-talented.

When Aziraphale pulled away from the kiss, panting for breath that he didn’t need, it was only to kneel in front of the chair where he had graciously deposited Crowley. The angel, still more or less fully clothed, kept his gaze intent at his eye level, mesmerized, as he ran a gentle hand over the skin of Crowley’s stomach, the trail of thick, dark hair that led down from his navel. Moving his attention downward, Aziraphale stroked the demon’s thighs, the expanse of soft flesh covered in more of that same dark hair. Crowley stayed silent and pliant, simply watching the angel’s movements, until Aziraphale tapped the insides of his knees, a request for Crowley to spread his legs.

“Oh, wow,” the demon breathed, even as he obliged cooperatively. “We’re just going for it, then?”

“Yes, that was rather the point,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley swallowed, chewing on his lip. “Then why’re you still dressed?”

“Tell me, Crowley,” the angel said, ignoring the question, “what have you thought about doing with me? _To_ me?” He slinked up the length of Crowley’s body, leaning over him now so their faces were level, his hands planted on either side of the demon’s deliciously curved hips. He lowered his voice, his lips a hair’s breadth from Crowley’s ear. “Things we haven’t done before? Things you’d never even consider asking for?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Crowley’s voice shook. He tried to turn his head, to get a look at the angel’s face, but Aziraphale reacted with supernatural speed to catch Crowley’s jaw in one hand with a grip that was firm, but not harsh enough to hurt.

Nipping gently at the demon’s earlobe, Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley couldn’t help a little smile at the fact that he _could_ scoff, could still sound so righteously indignant in a situation like this. “Don’t you?” said the angel, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell of Crowley’s ear. “I’m asking you, Crowley, to tell me your wildest fantasies. No holds barred.”

Crowley thought about that – _no holds barred_. Except the two of them had agreed that there were limits, they had discussed it. He thought about how he wanted to hold Aziraphale’s hand, how he wanted Aziraphale to hold him close at night; those holds were barred, that wasn’t what the angel wanted to hear. He took a deep breath, his mouth gone unnaturally dry. “Why?”

“I had hoped it was obvious,” the angel said, an edge of irritation in his tone, “that I planned on bringing them to fruition.”

“But… why?”

Aziraphale pulled back, fixing Crowley with a stony glare, and spoke in tense, measured tones. “Because, my dear, it seemed apparent you wouldn’t open up to me if your life depended on it.” He moved in slowly, positioning himself so he was straddling Crowley’s thigh, one corduroy-clad knee torturously close to the demon’s neglected cock, the other pressing in against his hip. “So I thought it might change things if… something else depended on it.”

“Are you saying you won’t… unless I…”

“Yes, Crowley,” the angel said, “and might I add, you’re doing a _spiffing_ job of communicating, so far.”

Crowley groaned, throwing his head back. “That’s not fair.”

“Right, because you know fair, don’t you?”

“Aziraphale, I don’t know wh– _ah_ ,” Crowley cut himself off with a choked gasp as the angel shifted his knee forward between his legs, a devastatingly calculated move that offered pressure but no enjoyment.

“You _do_ know,” the angel said coldly. “We’ve been at this for months and we have not once addressed the obvious question.”

“And what’s that?”

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the demon’s collarbone, pressing down and relishing the way the skin paled for a moment before the blood rushed back to the surface. It entranced him, sometimes, how _human_ Crowley’s body was, how much attention he put into the details like that. How his form was marked with scars and freckles, how Aziraphale could bite and grab and pinch him and the bruises would still be there, days later. He leaned in to replace his thumb with his mouth, sucking a hard mark into the demon’s clavicle, and let a self-satisfied smile flit across his face at the way Crowley’s breath caught.

When Aziraphale spoke again, it was in a devious whisper. “How long were you thinking about this, Crowley? How long before you spoke up were you imagining this, picturing us together, craving my touch?”

Crowley didn't answer, until the angel stroked his hands down his chest, grazing both of his nipples with a feather-light touch, eliciting a low hiss from the demon. “Oh, so long, angel,” he said, “ _forever_.”

“Forever?” Aziraphale put on an innocent mask and cocked his head to the side.

“Yes.”

“And what did you think about?”

“You know, you know what I thought about,” the demon whined. “Angel, _pleassse_.”

“Hm, I do like to hear that,” Aziraphale said as he traced shapes on Crowley’s skin with his fingertips. “But we’ll have to revisit it. Right now, you’re going to _talk_ to me.”

Crowley sighed. “What’s your endgame, here?”

“Ideally, the endgame is that I take you upstairs and do unspeakable things to you.” Aziraphale allowed the words to sink in, watched Crowley’s eyes widen and felt his pulse quicken. “It’s the interim that makes the difference.”

Crowley shook his head, frustrated. “So what do you want from me?”

“I already said,” the angel scolded.

“I don’t know where to start,” said Crowley, “it’s so open-ended. I’ve thought about everything, I’ve imagined _everything_.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, and his expression lightened before he spoke again. “Why me?”

Crowley just looked at the angel, brow furrowed, as if attempting to read his mind.

“Why _me?_ ” Aziraphale repeated. “You could have anyone – any human, certainly. Why dwell on me so much?”

“Well… you're not human,” Crowley pointed out lamely. He was horribly confused by this whole conversation, not to mention intensely aroused, and it made for rather ineffectual verbal communication. “You're different,” he added.

Aziraphale looked at him like he had gotten the answer right, but forgotten to show his work. “Different how?”

Crowley dragged his fingers down his face in exasperation, huffing out a breath. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, “I don’t know. You’re an angel.”

“Oh, is that it?” Aziraphale teased. He reached down between them to stroke Crowley with practiced ease, maintaining his own composure while the demon fell apart. “You want me because I’m an _angel?_ That seems odd.”

“No,” Crowley said, “not – _oh, shit, Aziraphale_ – I don’t know, not just that.”

The angel frowned. “What else, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with me?” Aziraphale almost surprised himself with how well he could carry off the tone of feigned hurt. He was legitimately upset with Crowley, on some level, but on another level, he was rather enjoying his little game. “Was I just the nearest body? A conquest of convenience?”

“No!” Crowley’s voice went up an octave and he scrambled to put his hands on the angel, aiming for a reassuring touch. “No, _fuck_ , no, not at all.”

Aziraphale looked down at where the demon’s fingers were splayed across the outsides of his legs, caressing him with small, nervous movements, and moved his own hands to settle on Crowley’s forearms. He felt the demon’s grip tighten on him, fingertips digging into trouser-clad thighs, and he wondered vaguely if it was because of the new touch or simply because he had stopped touching him elsewhere. He looked up, meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“My dear boy,” he murmured earnestly, “would you please meet me halfway?”

“You’re special,” the demon said, so soft Aziraphale wasn’t sure he heard it right. “You are. It’s not… I mean, it wouldn’t – it wouldn’t be the same, with someone else.”

“Why not?”

Crowley sighed. “Someone else wouldn’t be _you_.”

“You’re talking yourself in circles,” Aziraphale replied, trying his hardest to keep the ire out of his tone. “Tell me, what about the first time? That first day, why did you…” He swallowed before continuing, quieter. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to.” Crowley paused to think, knowing it wasn’t a satisfactory answer. “It’s like I said. I was – the world almost ended. It gave me some perspective about… the things I was taking for granted.” He studied Aziraphale’s expression, searching for some understanding, and found only an expectant gaze, encouraging him to keep going. “You were… you were always there,” he said, “and I was always… thinking about you, and I never thought you would – never would’ve tried it, before. But I was high on the world not ending, and I wasn’t thinking, and I just did it because I wanted to, because I didn’t want to keep thinking about it, because I didn’t want to keep going the same way as before.”

“See? That wasn’t so difficult,” the angel purred. He placed a hand on Crowley’s chest and moved in for a soft, languid kiss. “Now, back to my original question. Tell me what you thought about, for all that time. All that time that you spent holding back.”

“I thought a lot about what you would taste like,” Crowley answered, licking his lips, eyes blown wide. “I could never decide if I thought it would be more airy or earthy, but it didn't really matter. I just wanted to taste you.” Now the floodgates were open, Crowley felt almost as if he were outside his own body, watching it babble on and on, unable to make it stop. “I thought about kissing you, all the time. Thought about you kissing me, you making the first move, me following your lead. Thought about you… fucking me. Fucking me gently, fucking me rough. Had a lot of time to think about everything.”

Aziraphale breathed quietly, his lips parted, and cleared his throat. “And what about since we started this? The past few months, what have you been thinking about then?”

“Been thinking… it’s good. Every bit as good as I imagined. And now I don’t have to imagine it anymore, ‘cause we’ve done it.”

“Certainly,” the angel said, “but we haven’t done _everything._ Aren’t there still – don’t you want more, sometimes?”

Crowley’s chest squeezed a little, and he had to remind himself that his lungs and heart were mostly for show, that he wasn’t going to die on the spot. “More, how?”

“Did you ever think about giving, rather than receiving?” Aziraphale spoke cautiously, keeping his tone conversational, a complete reversal of the seduction he’d been playing up. “Did you ever think about my tongue inside you? Did you ever think about being tied up?”

Even as he blushed from his face down to his chest, the demon’s cock twitched against Aziraphale’s leg. “Well, I – I mean, maybe,” he stammered, “maybe I thought about, er, things like that, but – but not seriously considered it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like what we do,” Crowley mumbled. “I don’t need anything else. I don’t want to ruin it. Don’t want to ask for more than I deserve.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed in reverent tones. “Look at me.” He waited for Crowley to look up before speaking again. “You deserve all of it. Anything you want. You can’t… you can’t close yourself off from desire because you’re afraid of how I’ll react. I want you to tell me these things.”

Crowley nodded solemnly, swallowing and blinking back the tears that sprung up in his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered, “okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… give us both a little credit, yes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

“Now tell me something else,” said Aziraphale, straightening his back a bit. “How do you feel right now?”

Crowley hesitated, thought about it for a long time while Aziraphale waited patiently. “Confused,” he said eventually.

“Why?”

“Because you – you asked me to come over, you told me you – that you _wanted_ me, and then you started teasing me and asking me all these questions, and now you’re being so nice to me, it’s a lot to process.” The demon took a deep breath, pausing to collect his thoughts. “I’m naked, and you’re not, and we’re just sitting here _talking,_ ” he said simply. “And I feel like I’m being tested, and I don’t know if I’m passing or not because I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale gave a small sigh. “I feel like you’re drifting, lately,” he said, “and I don’t want to lose you.”

Crowley furrowed his brow, frowning deeply. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to lose you, either. We agree on that.”

Aziraphale nodded understandingly. “I just wanted – you’ve been acting so strange, and it worried me, I _told_ you that. I just thought maybe if I caught you off guard, you might be willing to talk to me.” He rubbed his hands up and down Crowley’s arms, warming the cool skin. “Because… because we’re friends,” he said lamely, “and you aren’t okay, and I’m not okay with that.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “have I talked enough? Are you satisfied?”

“For now, yes.”

“In that case, I would like to humbly request that we take this upstairs so I can even the playing field a bit.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, summoning a small amount of power to miracle them into the bed upstairs without shifting their positions. He planned to remove his clothes the same way, but Crowley shook his head, sensing what he was about to do.

“No,” he said, “I want to do it myself.”

The angel nodded, moving to let him do just that. He had had enough control for today, he thought, and the least he could do was let Crowley take the reins here, especially so long as it kept him voicing his desires. Aziraphale allowed himself one smug smile at a plan well-executed, before giving himself over completely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley tries something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is another one with strangely blunt and in-depth discussion of crowley's drinking habits, so watch out for that, if that's an issue for you.  
> i actively tried to make this chapter devastating because i feed off of your pain, so, you're welcome. enjoy.

Crowley lay back comfortably, his long legs slung over the arm of the sofa, a bottle of SOMA clutched to his side, and eyed Aziraphale across the flat. The angel puttered about in the kitchen, reaching into the freezer for a handful of ice cubes, dropping them into a glass which was already half-full with vermouth. Setting the glass down gently on the counter, picking up the empty one nearby and replacing it in the cupboard, he called over his shoulder to Crowley.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, my dear?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered amiably, “I’m good, thanks.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow, turning and moving to join Crowley on the couch. Crowley watched from his upside-down position as the angel crossed the room and took a seat. Throwing his feet up on the coffee table comfortably, Aziraphale took a sip of his drink and looked warily down at the demon, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Whatever he was waiting for, it didn’t come. Crowley simply lounged, and lazed, and gazed back up at him, looking content.

“This is weird,” Aziraphale said at last, folding his arms across his chest. 

“It’s not that weird,” Crowley protested. 

“It is. It’s incredibly weird.” The angel placed his drink on the coffee table and turned to face Crowley fully. “Remind me what you think you’re accomplishing?”

Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh, propping himself up on an elbow to speak. “I’ve explained it four times, angel.”

“Well, a fifth can’t hurt.”

“Okay,” Crowley began, adopting the tone of a professor who has been forced to explain basic algebra to a class of upper-level students. “You know how I do stupid shit, sometimes?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“And you know how much I drink?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you know how heavy the overlap is between the two?” Crowley pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, feeling his point had been made.

“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale, sounding tired. “I just don’t understand why you have to be so  _ dramatic  _ about it. Going cold turkey, and all. It’s strange.”

Crowley sat up fully, rolling his eyes. “It’s for my  _ health, _ Aziraphale.”

“Your health? Do you realize how nonsensical that is? What, are you worried about liver damage?”

Crowley had decided, sometime between waking up from a two-day nap and waking up in Aziraphale’s bed the day after that, that most of the problems in his life stemmed from excessive drinking. He thought if he stopped drinking altogether, he could make smarter decisions, and not fall asleep for two days, and perhaps do a little less wallowing. It made perfect sense to him. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was having trouble understanding the logic behind it.

It would have been just as easy for Crowley to continue drinking and not get drunk; he could simply have evaporated the alcohol from his bloodstream as quickly as he drank it, and Aziraphale would have been none the wiser. He considered this as a course of action, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt deceptive, like he would be lying to the angel, and he didn’t fancy the idea of taking advantage of Aziraphale like that. 

Besides, it was a symbolic abstinence as much as a practical one. An exercise in self-restraint, Crowley told himself, and then he thought, no, not so much. Self-restraint wasn’t his issue, so much as consistency. Commitment, he thought with a twist of dark humor. If he could make a decision and stick to it in this one area of his life, perhaps he could do the same with – well, other things.

“I mean my mental health,” he spoke up after a long period of thought. 

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. This was not a common topic of conversation for them, for Crowley, who preferred to pretend he was always fine, until he wasn’t. He didn’t like to open up about pretty much anything, even when it directly affected Aziraphale, much less about his own inner feelings. The angel drained his glass, carefully considering his next step.

“How so?” The question felt inadequate, but Aziraphale thought asking anything more would come off as prying, and the demon would close himself off again.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, took a sip of his water, kept a rapt watch on Aziraphale’s glass as the angel refilled it with a thought. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Just, I don’t think I do it for the right reasons. I ought to let myself experience the world as it is, every once in a while, don’t you think? And stop hiding behind an altered state of consciousness all the time?”

“That's… quite insightful, dear,” Aziraphale said, quiet and apprehensive.

Crowley looked at him. “What? What's wrong?”

The angel rubbed his temples, shaking his head, before turning to Crowley with narrowed eyes. “Nothing, just. You're rather more forthcoming than usual, today.” 

“I'm trying something new, angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head again, but accepted the statement without further questioning. He recognized that Crowley had been going through  _ something, _ lately, even if he didn't know what it was, and if his newest coping mechanism was openness and understanding, well, it could be worse. It had been worse. 

Aziraphale heard Crowley take a sharp inhale, and then he said, “Did we used to be happier, do you think?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale stared into his glass, which was empty once again, and willed it to be full of scotch, having tired of the vermouth.

Crowley sighed. “Well, before…” He felt it would be uncouth to say  _ before we started sleeping together, _ and it wasn't really what he meant, anyway. He just wasn't sure what he did mean. 

The truth was, Crowley couldn't pinpoint the moment exactly, but there was a spot, sometime in the last eleven years, where he realized that whether the apocalypse was averted or not, he couldn't keep ignoring whatever was going on between the two of them. He certainly couldn't die without telling Aziraphale how he felt, and he didn't think they would be able to survive the end of the world and then continue on with their lives as if nothing had changed. He was right about the latter point, in a monkey's paw sort of way: things had definitely changed. 

Crowley couldn't help thinking it had been much easier, before, when he knew how he felt, and also knew with complete certainty that he could keep it to himself forever. Now, he had too much knowledge, too much self-awareness, and he saw his hiding for what it was. Only, he still didn't know what to do about it, so he just spent more of his time on doubting himself, chastising himself, and hating himself, and less of his time on enjoying himself.

Attempting to be patient while Crowley’s train of thought ran its course, Aziraphale had found over the years, was a difficult task. It was even more difficult when the angel was tipsy, rapidly approaching drunk, and waiting for the answer to a question that he thought was rather important. 

Still, he waited a decent length of time, and then asked, “Before what?”

“Er, before, erm,” Crowley stammered for a moment before he latched onto a thought. “Before all the armageddon business, you know.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Things certainly were less stressful,” he said softly.

“Why are things still so stressful, when the world has been saved?” 

“I think we make it stressful for ourselves,” the angel murmured, tapping the side of his glass idly, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance. “We should stop doing that, maybe.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, somewhat amused by Aziraphale’s drunken attempt at wisdom. “How do we do that?”

Looking at the demon as if he’d asked for the key to world peace, Aziraphale chewed on his lower lip for a long, thoughtful moment before answering. “We’ve got to stop worrying,” he said at last, unsure, speaking slowly to avoid slurring or tripping over his words, “about things that don’t require worrying.”

“In that case,” Crowley replied, “you should worry less about me.”

“Can’t do that, sorry.” The angel shook his head, strangely somber. “You make it too easy to worry about you.”

“Then what else do you suggest?”

Aziraphale rested his chin on his hand and frowned, a parodistic  _ Penseur.  _ “Distractions,” he said after a time, as if a lightbulb had gone off over his head. “Very effective, they are.”

“I do love a good distraction,” Crowley said wistfully, thinking fond thoughts of the days when he would stop a train by placing a moose or a tree or a house directly on the tracks, just to stir up annoyance and confusion, and if somebody happened to use the cover of all that excitement to their benefit in order to smuggle some children across a convenient nearby border, well, who was he to stop them?

“You feel like distracting me right now?” Aziraphale asked innocently, before noting the distant look on Crowley’s face. He frowned and gave a soft  _ humph  _ to get the demon’s attention. “Crowley, please,” he added, trying not to sound put out.

Crowley snapped back into the present in time to see Aziraphale’s pout before the angel leaned in and kissed him. He took a moment to catch up to what he’d missed while he was lost in thought, and then responded tentatively to the ministrations of Aziraphale’s mouth on his. Parting his lips, he allowed a slip of the angel’s tongue, tasted the mix of liquors he’d been sipping on and the subtle richness underneath, earthy yet completely and uniquely angelic. When Aziraphale brought a hand up to rest on Crowley’s cheek, he allowed that, as well. It was only when the angel moaned, a dirty, unreserved noise pressed heavy against his mouth, that Crowley pulled away.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, staring at Aziraphale’s mouth. “We shouldn’t do… anything else, I think.”

Aziraphale whined. “Don’t you want me?”

Hit with a sense of  _ déjà vu, _ Crowley bit back a laugh. “Didn’t we just do this?” he asked, looking around at the sofa, his living room, then back at Aziraphale. “The other way around? Last week?”

“That was different,” Aziraphale answered.

“How was it different?”

The angel jutted his chin out, indignant. “You weren’t in your right mind,” he said stubbornly. “I’m perfectly con – cogno – cognizant.”

Crowley did laugh at that, a bit. “Angel, you’re perfectly pissed, is what you are.”

“S’fine,” Aziraphale insisted. “Kiss me again.”

Crowley obliged, confident that he could continue to ride this line without taking it too far. Kissing was okay, he thought, so long as it didn’t go any further, and he trusted himself to know where to stop. This time, it was when Aziraphale placed both hands on the demon’s chest and grabbed desperately at his shirt, tightly fisting the fabric; Crowley stopped him before he made it to the point of trying to unbutton his shirt.

“Okay, angel, come on,” he said softly, holding Aziraphale at a short distance and looking him in the eyes. “I don’t want to be distracted right now.”

Aziraphale pouted again, huffing out a breath. “Why?”

“Because,” Crowley began explaining patiently, “I don’t need a distraction. I  _ enjoy  _ being here with you.”

“You don’t  _ enjoy  _ having sex with me?” Aziraphale’s whine was almost enough in itself to break Crowley’s resolve; he sounded positively heartbroken.

Groaning, Crowley wondered if his stomach would ever stop doing a little flip every time the angel said a dirty word. “No, I do, I do, of course I do,” he protested. “But we can do other things, too. We can just hang out, can’t we? We did it just fine for six thousand years.”

“I think _ just fine _ is a bit of an overstatement.”

“What do you mean?”

“S’just… a long time,” the angel replied with a shrug, “to resist. Long time to wait,” he added, “even for an angel.”

Crowley gave a small quirk of his lips, a soft, fleeting smile, before murmuring a response. “I commend you for your patience.”

“Point is,” Aziraphale continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken, “it’s better now, than it was before. Not waiting anymore, right? And we’re still stressed. Doesn’t add up.”

They both thought on this for a few long minutes, Crowley attempting to puzzle out what the angel was getting at, Aziraphale attempting the same. Ideas swam around in his head, crashing into each other and making a mess that he was incapable of tidying in his current state. Eventually, he caught one, an idea that seemed brilliant, insightful, and safe to voice aloud to Crowley.

“I think it’s like robots,” he said, matter-of-fact, and paused to take in Crowley’s blank stare before realizing he needed to elaborate. “The robots, I mean, they look like people, but they aren’t people, and it’s unsettling for actual people,” he explained. “It’s like – it’s like. We’re so close to peace that it’s all odd and bad when we notice we’re not quite… there yet.”

Crowley nodded sagely, pursing his lips, rubbing his chin. “You mean we’re in an uncanny valley of existential anxiety?”

Aziraphale beamed and clapped his hands together, his face red from alcohol and excitement. “Yes! See, I knew you’d understand. That’s why I love you.”

There was a beat of silence, then an audible gasp, but neither of them knew which one made the noise. When Crowley spoke, his voice was strained, as if he were choking, or trying to physically restrain himself from saying the words. “You… you what?” 

“Shit,” Aziraphale muttered, quietly enough that even Crowley couldn’t hear. “I mean – not that I – I mean,” he stammered, fumbling over his tongue, unable to find words to build a proper sentence. “I meant, it’s nice. It’s just – I mean. One of the things I like about you. I didn’t mean I – sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, angel,” Crowley said, attempting to even out his breathing in order to speak to Aziraphale in soothing tones. “You misspoke. It’s not a crime.”

Burying his face in his hands, the angel groaned miserably. “No, but it’s – we don’t – I mean. You know, we _ don’t,” _ he lamented.

“I know,” said Crowley, sounding almost as small as he felt. “We don’t.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself as best he could, staring at his shoes. He endured another long, uncomfortable silence before he said, “I should – I should go. Got some work to get on with, at the… er, the.”

“The bookshop?” Crowley offered helpfully.

“Yes, quite,” muttered Aziraphale. He swayed slightly as he stood, and Crowley’s hand darted to his waist to steady him. 

Looking up at the angel from his position on the sofa, Crowley furrowed his brow deeply. “Let me drive you back,” he said, not a question. “You’re drunk.”

Aziraphale shook his head, sniffed, smoothed down his lapels. “Not anymore,” he replied, abruptly confident and absent of all his drunken uncertainty, making his way breezily across the room to leave the flat. “I’ll be fine, thank you,” he added as an afterthought, and then he left.

Crowley stared at the door, his mouth agape, not moving, not breathing, for ten full minutes after the angel was gone. One of the benefits of being immortal, he had always said, was that he never had to do anything in a hurry, and so he took his time to process what was one of the most confusing interactions he had ever had with Aziraphale. 

When he was over the initial shock, and when he was absolutely sure that Aziraphale was many blocks away, he flopped back on the sofa and screamed, first a wordless expression of pent-up frustration, and then a bewildered question, and then a desperate, sobbing declaration. He knew it wouldn’t help, of course, knew he wouldn’t find the answer, or find peace, by yelling alone in his flat, but it felt cathartic to say these things out loud, and  _ very  _ loud.

So he screamed:  _ “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” _

And then he shouted:  _ “Why does this keep happening?” _

And then he cried:  _ “I love you, I love you, I love you.” _

He did this for hours until he had fully exhausted himself, and then he passed out on his living room floor, thinking distantly,  _ Sobriety fucking sucks. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two sad boys are sad, separately from one another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's called mutual pining for a reason, y'all  
> love u thanks for reading my shit

Crowley was lying on the ground. He was doing this on purpose, which he supposed was better than the alternative, but still, it wasn’t what he particularly  _ wanted  _ to be doing. He was lying on the ground, in the grass, in a public park which was currently closed to the public, but only because Crowley had decided it should be.

He had been doing a rather good job with his sobriety kick, occupying himself by going on long drives and long walks and taking long naps and long baths. Everything had to be long, because he planned to do this for at least forever, and he was bound to run out of things to do if he didn’t take his time. Today, he had walked a distance from his flat, a winding, rambling distance that took him to a place he only vaguely recognized, and then he had found this park, and settled in for a bit of wallowing in solitude. Wallowing had, thus far, proven to be the most effective way to pass the time.

Crowley liked to wallow in the outdoors, because he found it soothing to talk to plants, but he didn’t want to give his houseplants the false impression that they were his confidantes. No, he thought it best to keep them out of his personal life, so when he needed to talk, he went outside. Sometimes he would find a nice homey forest and ramble aloud to the trees; sometimes he would go on a self-guided garden tour and confide in the flowers; today, he chose to whisper his woes to the grass in the park. It was going swimmingly.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, his tone pensive, as if a blade of grass had asked him the meaning of life. “I guess I’m just waiting for him to say something or do something. I don’t want to scare him off if he needs his space.” He rested his chin on his hands and blew out a breath in a huff. “I really should stop checking in on him, then, I guess. It’s not creepy, I don’t  _ think  _ it’s creepy, I just need to make sure he’s still… still here.”

Aziraphale had let Crowley talk him into getting a landline phone for the shop, just so he didn’t have to give his mobile number out to professional contacts. The angel had relented, after a lot of convincing, and he had also agreed to put the phone number on the business cards he hadn’t wanted to give out. It wasn’t exactly a popular spot to call, but Aziraphale acted like each ring of the phone was an affront to his sensibilities. He never answered the phone. Never. He sent it straight to voicemail, and then he didn’t listen to his voicemails. So the only way Crowley could tell that Aziraphale was alive and in the shop was by the fact that it went to voicemail after half a ring, rather than ringing and ringing and ringing.

In the three weeks since Aziraphale had last spoken to him, Crowley had called the shop every day, and it had gone to voicemail in a fraction of a second, every time. It was good; he didn’t need Aziraphale to pick up, he just needed to know he was there. It was a relief for him to know that even if they weren’t together, Aziraphale wasn’t going off and having fun without him, or getting hurt without him, or being lonely without him. He was simply hanging around the shop, doing Aziraphale things. 

And Crowley was doing Crowley things, like lying on the ground in a public park, talking to grass.

“It’s like… I don’t know if it’s him or me, you know?” He paused, as if expecting an answer. “Who  _ accidentally  _ says ‘I love you’? And then runs away and hides?” 

Crowley removed his sunglasses, focusing his vision on a single blade of grass, atop which was perched a small ant. Animals did not usually like Crowley, but he had managed to build a grudgingly respectful rapport with most insects, a tenuous truce upheld by the thread of Crowley’s implicit promise not to eat them. This ant seemed nice enough, he thought, and he could have sworn it was looking at him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that,” he said, his gaze drifting between the ant and the ground. “I thought we were alone.” He raised his eyebrows and adopted a low warning tone before adding, “This stays between us, understood?”

The ant wiggled its antennae, which Crowley took as a confirmation. Turning his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the ground, closing his eyes, he took a deep inhale. His sense of smell – his human sense of smell, the one located in the nose – was always a source of comfort for him, possibly because he expected only pleasant smells, and that was what he received. He loved the smell of wine, of food, of his plants, of his car. He liked smells, in general, not to mention the fact that having olfactory nerves gave him a good reminder that he was better than dolphins in at least one regard.

The grass tickled his nose as he breathed it in, the scent of soil and green and life, not the thick, wet stench of a freshly mown lawn, but the solid smell of life. Underneath that, more subtle, was his own personal scent. Further away, there were trees, and animals, and metal and concrete and –

And Aziraphale. 

Crowley didn’t need to wonder why he had homed in on the angel so easily; six thousand years of practice would do that. He tried to seem inconspicuous when he looked around to find the source of the angelic aroma, fearing Aziraphale might see him. Craning his neck, he caught sight of the angel standing just on the other side of the park’s fence, and he was facing in Crowley’s general direction, but it was impossible to tell whether he was looking at him.

Tucking his legs underneath him, Crowley assumed a nonchalant position. Just in case, he told himself, just in case Aziraphale decides to come over here, he could, he could, he might. Just in case. The desire to be near Aziraphale, to talk to him, to  _ touch  _ him, was overwhelming, but Crowley was torn, as he didn’t particularly fancy Aziraphale finding him like this.

After a few long moments, possibly minutes, Crowley felt a shift in the air, and he turned to his ant friend with a groan. “He's walking away, isn't he?”

Aziraphale had been doing a lot of thinking, the past few weeks. Mostly, this involved sitting with a book in his hands to uphold the pretense of activity while he stared at his mobile, waiting for Crowley to call. Occasionally, he took a break from that to stare at the door, waiting for Crowley to come in.

His mobile stayed silent, the door stayed untouched, for three weeks. He tried to get out of the shop, just a bit, but he found that nothing appealed to him when he was alone. Crowley had always been what made earth fun, and fulfilling, and  _ home. _

Aziraphale knew that he could just as easily take the plunge and contact Crowley first, but the idea was unthinkable to him. He would say, if asked, that he felt he had overstepped his bounds last time they saw each other, and he was giving Crowley time to forgive him and decide it was okay to get back to normal. He would say that, because he would never admit that he was simply too proud to open himself up after the way he'd utterly embarrassed himself. No, Crowley was going to have to make the first move here.

Still, even if he couldn't enjoy himself, he couldn't do entirely nothing. He was out of milk, for one. Walking to the grocery store had to be okay, he figured, couldn't possibly make him ache with loneliness, because it wasn't meant to be fun or social, and it wasn't something he usually did with Crowley. Plus, the fresh air would help clear his mind.

Unfortunately, the fresh air did indeed clear his mind, so there was a vacuum of thought, just waiting to be filled, when he found himself walking past his third-favorite park. It wasn't any human sense that alerted him to Crowley's proximity, but a psychic energy nudging in at the fuzzy edges of his own, kindred and familiar. He froze in his tracks. 

Turning toward the feeling, he saw that Crowley was lying in the grass in the distance, on the other side of a fence with several signs on it reading things like CAUTION and KEEP OUT and DANGER and PEST CONTROL TOXIC CHEMICALS PLEASE LEAVE. 

Crowley was the most dangerous thing in the park, and he was also the only pest in the place. It was just his brand of dramatic, to close off the whole place with ostentatious signage just so he could have it to himself. Aziraphale snorted. 

If he strained his ears, he could hear the soft tenor of Crowley’s voice, murmuring to himself, but he couldn’t make out any words. He wondered, fleetingly, if he should go over there and talk to him, and then he remembered the last time he’d spoken to Crowley, and the mortification flooded back. Best to just get his milk and go home, then, he thought.

As he fled the scene, Aziraphale considered how long he could get away with avoiding Crowley. The longest they had ever gone without talking to each other was the nineteenth century, but he didn’t really think that counted as an act of willpower on his part. The longest they had ever gone without seeing each other was in the Middle Ages, when various assignments had kept them apart for a little more than three hundred years, but they’d exchanged letters. After much thought, Aziraphale concluded that he’d never actually had to avoid Crowley before, and therefore had no frame of reference for how long he could keep it up. 

It occurred to him rather soon after that that he was not a very patient angel. Or, he was, but he was also a very bored angel, and a very lonely angel, and a very sad angel, at times. And, he was recently discovering, a very horny angel. He tried to distract himself, to pass the time with anything at all, but he always came back to thinking about Crowley. 

When the sun rose in the morning, Aziraphale thought about how Crowley was probably still asleep, and how Crowley looked so peaceful when he slept, how his mouth hung open just a bit and his breathing became smooth and even. His hair mussed, his brow relaxed, his long limbs thrown every which way. And how sometimes, if he reached out a bit, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s dreams, could share in his world and know his mind.

When he made the decision to eat something, he thought about how he only enjoyed food when Crowley was there, how so much of the experience was tied up in Crowley’s presence. He could savor each bite and Crowley would sit and watch him. He would order their food and Crowley would order the wine, and they would both explain to each other why they chose what they chose, as if presenting their quarterly spending to a board of trustees, and then they would talk over lunch. Aziraphale liked the decadence of rich food, but it was not the same without Crowley.

When he read a good line in a book, a solid piece of figurative language, a brilliant turn of phrase, he thought about how much Crowley would appreciate it. Usually, he would text Crowley any quotes he found particularly intriguing, ask for his thoughts, and Crowley would reply with his thoughts, and it would turn into a conversation, productive or no. Sometimes they debated, sometimes they agreed, but they always appreciated it together. When he came across things he wanted to send to Crowley, Aziraphale wrote it all down, planning to have everything prepared to catch up on when the demon came to him. 

When he saw the color green, he thought of Crowley. When he adjusted his reading glasses, he thought of Crowley. When he looked at the moon, he thought of Crowley. When he got dressed, he thought of Crowley. When he got _un_ dressed, he thought of Crowley very much. It was harrowing, it was exhausting, and he could only hope it would be over soon, that they would be together again.

While Aziraphale increasingly attempted to occupy himself, Crowley slowly lost interest in all activities except wallowing. He subsisted mainly on coffee and cigarettes and the occasional biscuit from a tin, as his preferred vice was currently off limits. At around the one month mark, he stopped eating altogether, and although he did not technically need to eat in order to survive, his body responded to his mood and behavior. He was thin and pale, the dark circles under his eyes becoming more prominent with each passing hour.

Almost completely despondent, Crowley gave up on his long walks, gave up on calling the book shop every day, gave up on food, gave up on intellectual stimulation of any kind. He sulked and moped and groaned and griped, and sometimes slept, and occasionally, he would allow himself a nice long, hot bath, to scrub off the top layer of his skin, to make him feel something. 

At one point, Crowley searched up on the internet what people do to make baths feel cozy. Most of the sources said to light candles, and a few said to read a book in the bath, but he knew he couldn’t do that without thinking of Aziraphale the whole time, so he stuck to the candles.

Crowley drew a bath, as hot as he could stand it, and sank down into the water, surrounded by at least a dozen flickering candles of various scents. It was an assault on his senses, but the ambiance was fantastic, for a bath. It was there, in his bathtub, submerged in scalding water, that he felt most at peace. Not at peace, mind, but more at peace than other times. It was warm, and safe, and bright without hurting, and it made him feel clean. 

Despite this feeling, Crowley still occupied most of his mind with thinking about Aziraphale: how to get him to talk again, how to get him close again, how to get him to say “I love you” again, how to get him into bed again. It was only a matter of time, he thought, but how much time? How long could he wait?

He followed this spiral of thought down to the bottom, and cried in the bathtub. It was almost a routine, by now. Falling asleep in the bathtub was not quite a part of it, but after one particularly draining crying session, that was where Crowley found himself, his head lolled back against the edge of the porcelain tub, his arms draped over the sides holding him up. Sleep, at least was peaceful, for the most part, and even happy sometimes. He could work with that.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally have no explanation for this. shit went off the rails. it's good and i won't apologize for it but it's just a tad bonkers. warning there's Real Sex here, so if you don't want that, you can read about the first two-thirds of the chapter and then skip to the last few paragraphs and you'll be golden.

One of the interesting things about being cold-blooded was that a sudden, drastic change in temperature could pull Crowley out of even the deepest sleep. He had found himself thinking on several occasions before that if he were dead and buried in the ground, the changing seasons would still be enough to stir him from his slumber. So when he awoke in his bath, although the water had cooled from blistering to lukewarm, the first thing he noticed was that he was  _ hot. _ Too hot, far too hot. 

It didn’t take him long to figure out why the temperature had increased so dramatically, as he cast a look around the bathroom and immediately shook off whatever drowsiness remained from his nap. Everything was bright and loud and close, a wall of flame cutting across the room, following a trail from the rug to the towel rack to the shower curtain to the dark wooden cabinet. Crowley choked, and then he began hyperventilating, which he knew, intellectually, was the wrong thing to be doing. He couldn’t process things intellectually at the moment; he was frantically searching for an out, his path to the door blocked by the fire.

Panic had always been a funny thing for Crowley, a thing he felt strongly, and often, in spite of his repeated insistence that it was not a demonic reaction. He could handle anxiety, he could talk himself down from paranoid thoughts, he could rationalize things to himself, but in over six thousand years, he had not yet found a way to override his panic response. His instinct when it happened was to swiftly jump into action, and it usually turned out okay, because he was competent and he knew what he was doing. Sometimes, though, he forgot some very obvious things that would be rather helpful to him.

Things like the fact that there was a tub full of water that he could easily use to put out the fire. Or the fact that he could simply walk through the flames to get to the door. Or even the fact that he should probably call the fire department. He did not do any of these things. 

What he did, while his heaving breaths turned into wheezes and sobs, was to punch through a wall with one of his wings and walk through the hole he created into his bedroom, and then make a beeline for the window. This would have been somewhat logical as an escape route, if he had taken the fire escape, but he did not. He stepped out onto the window ledge and propelled himself upward without pausing for thought, and simply flew away from his burning flat.

Crowley was not thinking in any coherent sense, but some vague part of him had a sense of self-preservation, and so he was not spotted by any humans who happened to look up at the London sky at three o’clock in the morning. This was doubly good, as his base instincts were not sophisticated enough to materialize clothing for him. When he touched down on the sidewalk outside Aziraphale’s bookshop, the feel of the concrete under his bare feet – which may or may not have been half-converted to scales – was just jarring enough to remind him to cover himself before he began pounding frantically on the door.

Aziraphale answered the door within seconds. He’d been sitting in the shop, because the back room reminded him of Crowley, and his bedroom reminded him of Crowley, and so he’d been sitting at his desk, pretending to look over his records, thinking about Crowley. And then he’d heard the unmistakable sound of Crowley’s wings beating, and the even more unmistakable sound of Crowley’s sobs, his futile attempts to gulp in air, and he’d gotten up and headed for the door before the demon had even thought of knocking.

“Crowley, are you –” Aziraphale was cut off when Crowley fell forward, embracing him around the middle with enough force to knock the wind out of him. The demon’s hands balled into fists in the back of Aziraphale’s jacket, his face pressed into the angel’s chest, his body still wracked with sobs. 

It was difficult to hold Crowley with his wings still out, and equally difficult to guide him into the shop so that Aziraphale could close the door, so the angel resorted to something he would previously have considered a dirty trick. He stroked Crowley’s feathers with a cautious hand, a soothing touch, and allowed a bit of divine warmth to diffuse through the demon’s body. He had never done this before, had always considered it a bit like cheating, like taking advantage, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He gave Crowley just enough, not a lot, just enough to calm him so he could focus and tuck his wings away, and he did. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, then, and practically dragged him inside, the demon mostly dead weight in his grasp, still breathing heavily and hiccuping. They got to the back room, and Aziraphale got Crowley situated on the sofa, still attached to him with an inextricable hold, and tried to look him over.

Crowley was positively covered in soot and sweat, tear tracks running down his filthy face, his eyes half-shut, exhausted. His clothes were shoddily manifested, looking like a mismatched pair of pajamas that a teenager would make for their final project in sewing class. He tried to keep breathing, but it came out as wheezing and crying and sniffing. Aziraphale waited patiently for him to calm down a bit more, all the while rubbing his back and murmuring comforting thoughts to him.

“Crowley,” he said softly, when the demon’s breathing had finally evened out a bit. “My dear, what happened to you?”

Crowley’s entire body stiffened against him, squeezing him tighter. “I… I was… I didn’t…” he tried to mumble a response, but found himself rather incapable of forming sentences. “It was… I think – candles? I don’t – I don’t – I didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t mean to – I couldn’t…”

“Crowley,” the angel soothed, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of the demon’s neck. “You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Crowley let out a whine that threatened to turn into more sobbing, but he swallowed it back before it could get that far. “It was just like last time. Like a nightmare.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Last time? What last time?”

“Everything was burning,” Crowley explained, his voice distant and shaky. “Everything was burning, and – and you weren’t there. Just like last time.”

“Oh.”

Crowley didn’t say anything in response, just nodded his head against Aziraphale’s chest. He heaved a sigh, a mingled sound of exhaustion and relief, and closed his eyes. With his arms wrapped around Aziraphale, Aziraphale’s around him, the sound of the angel’s steady, sturdy heart beating in his ears, he drifted to sleep. 

The angel rather helpfully cleaned him up and put him in better clothing for sleeping, soft cotton shorts and a tee, the way he knew Crowley liked it, and saw to a few other things while he was at it. He did all of this through the excessive use of miracles, because any time he tried to extract himself from Crowley’s grasp, the demon whimpered in his sleep and held onto him tighter, like an insecure boa constrictor. Aziraphale smiled to himself and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Crowley’s head, as he settled in to hold him until the demon felt safe enough to let go.

When Crowley awoke, it was less like a nightmare and more like a dream. Soft light streamed in through thin curtains, and as he looked around, he noticed they were in Aziraphale’s bed. Crowley looked up at the angel, scared and confused. He was glad to be here, yes, it was the most comfortable he’d felt in months, but a lot had happened to him, and he still wasn’t quite sure where he stood. His wide eyes met Aziraphale’s warm ones, and his chest squeezed painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said quickly, before Aziraphale had the chance to speak. He extricated himself from the angel, untwisting their limbs, and sat back to face him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t know where else to go. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, reached out for him, frowning when he shied away further. “What are you sorry for?” he asked, his voice soft and warm despite his puzzlement and hurt. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

His eyes rapidly filling with tears, Crowley swallowed thickly and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have – I know you don’t want me here, I shouldn’t have imposed on you.” Upon seeing the way the angel cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, Crowley jumped to continue speaking. “But I don’t… I don’t want to leave. Please don’t make me leave,” he begged, an edge of panic creeping back into his voice. “I can’t be alone right now, angel, please.”

Frowning deeply, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand before he could pull it away, and began rubbing small circles in the demon’s skin with his thumb. “I do want you here,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to go.” He thought for a moment, chewing on his lower lip, and tugged Crowley closer. “We don’t always have to be leaving each other,” he murmured fervently. “It’s okay to stay, sometimes. It’s good to stay.”

Crowley sniffed and nodded his head, reassured by Aziraphale’s kindness and openness. He allowed himself to be pulled back into Aziraphale’s arms, pliant and agreeable in his emotional state, craving the closeness and the comfort and the warmth of the angel’s embrace. Crowley moved to rest his head on Aziraphale’s chest again, but the angel caught him, one arm around his waist while the other released its hold on Crowley’s hand, moving to cup his cheek. 

“Come here,” Aziraphale said, guiding the demon’s face up until they were looking into each other’s eyes, so close that their breaths intermingled. 

At this distance, Crowley saw that the angel’s eyes were brimming with tears, as well; he was as close to falling apart as Crowley was. The demon blinked, a few stray tears escaping and rolling down his cheeks, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply, a soft gasp. He felt a bit silly, being so close to crying, because crying was not something he typically did, but he was more preoccupied with the way Crowley’s eyes shone, tears clinging to his long, dark lashes. 

Partially an effort to soothe the demon, partially an attempt to avoid crying himself, partially just an impulse, Aziraphale closed the gap between them, kissing Crowley with unspeakable tenderness. Crowley froze, caught off guard. After a moment, he relaxed and sighed into the kiss, but he pulled away all too soon. Aziraphale leaned into him, trying to prolong contact, but the demon gently pushed him back.

“We can’t…” Crowley furrowed his brow, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

Aziraphale licked his lips. “We can’t what? Why?”

“You don’t want to…” Crowley raised one eyebrow quizzically. “Right now?”

“I only want you,” said the angel, “I only want to be near you. I only want what will make you happy.”

Lip quivering, Crowley nodded his understanding. He rubbed at his eye somewhat pathetically, swiping away his tears, and moved in for another kiss. It was quick and light, the way he pressed his lips against the angel's, one hand moving to curl around the back of his neck. When he pulled away, he kept his eyes closed, breathing as small as he could, afraid to break the spell. Aziraphale didn't get the memo, as he opened his mouth to speak, his hands cradling the demon's face.

“I…” he paused, inhaling the moment, giving Crowley just enough time to interrupt him.

“Don't,” the demon breathed. “Let's… can we… will you just hold me?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.”

They shifted and maneuvered their bodies until Crowley rested with his head on the angel's shoulder, arms once again wound tightly around his pudgy middle. Aziraphale wrapped one arm around Crowley's shoulders, bringing his hand up to rest on the side of the demon's head, holding him close. A comfortable silence rested over them like a thin layer of dust for a long while, until a thought seeped into Crowley’s mind, the beginnings of panic threatening to return.

“I haven't… I didn't even think to worry about my flat,” he said distantly. 

Aziraphale smiled against the top of his head. “You don't have to,” he murmured. “It's taken care of.”

Crowley turned his head awkwardly to look at the angel's face, confused. “It's – what do you mean?” 

“I mean,” came the patient reply, “that I took care of it. Your flat is in fine condition, I promise.”

“But – how? You've been here the whole time, haven't you?”

“Of course I have. I wouldn't leave you in the state you're in.”

Crowley wrinkled his brow. “Then you – that's – you did it with miracles?”

“And a few phone calls, yes,” said Aziraphale.

“What did you do? That's got to be a tremendous amount of power –”

“Don't worry about it,” the angel soothed.

Crowley balked, placing a palm flat against the angel's chest for leverage and pushing himself up to look at him properly. “But… that's  _ crazy, _ Aziraphale,” he said. “That's – I don't even think I could pull off something that big if I tried, and I'd never even risk it, Dagon would be down my throat in a heartbeat, you – you did that?”

Aziraphale nodded, calm and resolute. “I did,” he said matter-of-factly. “Calm down, my dear. You needn't stress yourself over how I allocate my power or how my superiors respond. Everything is fine.”

Blinking back tears for what felt like the thousandth time that day, Crowley swallowed hard. “You did that,” he repeated, breathless and quiet. “You did that for me.”

Something shifted in Crowley's expression, his eyes darkening, and Aziraphale hardly had time to interpret the change before Crowley grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard. As soon as the angel responded, Crowley began to deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth, moving to pull him closer. One hand fisted in the fabric of the angel's shirt, the other tangling into his hair, Crowley clambered on top of him, near frantic in his desire. He plastered himself to the angel, his knees pressing in close at Aziraphale's hips, every part of their bodies flush together from the waist up, as if he could absorb Aziraphale through osmosis.

Coming up for air, Crowley trailed a line of quick, messy kisses down the angel's cheek, his jawline, his throat. Aziraphale made a noise somewhere between a moan and a contented hum, and Crowley responded by sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear.

“Crowley,” the angel said, though it came out a bit choked. “Crowley, you don't – you don't have to.”

“I know,” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale's skin, making to remove his shirt. “Let me, angel.”

“You don't have to,” Aziraphale repeated, more insistently. He held Crowley by the shoulders at enough of a distance that they could see each other's faces. “Just because I – you don't owe me anything.”

“It's not like that,” Crowley said, struggling to keep the whine out of his voice. “I want you.” He rolled his hips to emphasize his point, making Aziraphale gasp.

“If you're sure,” Aziraphale said.

“I've never been more sure of anything,” Crowley replied, moving once more to undress the angel.

He didn't rush the process, nor did he waste any time; each of his movements was calculated and deliberate, sensual and intimate. He touched Aziraphale's skin as he went, felt it soft and warm and smooth, traced shapes with his fingertips. He palmed the angel's cock, hard and hot through thin fabric, cupped and stroked it lightly, before disposing of Aziraphale's boxers. 

Aziraphale allowed the demon to finish his ministrations before returning the favor. He laid Crowley down underneath him, showered him with delicate touches and gentle kisses, unwrapped him like a rather fragile gift. When he finished, Aziraphale sat back, admiring the picture Crowley made. 

All the attention and anticipation meant that Crowley was achingly hard by this point, gazing at Aziraphale through heavy-lidded eyes, his lips parted and his breaths low. Aziraphale felt certain he could sit here looking at Crowley for a thousand years, he was so beautiful. The angel was just as painfully aroused as Crowley was, but he wanted to savor this, wanted to make it last. 

Fortunately, he knew by now just what Crowley liked. He trailed his hands down the demon's sides, warming his skin, moving down further to caress his thighs. Crowley's cock twitched at the mere proximity of Aziraphale's warm, deft hands, and he shuddered as the angel worked his way lower.

Finally, blessedly, Aziraphale pushed one finger inside him, and Crowley released a breath he'd been holding for a while. The angel took his time in preparing him, not torturously slow, but careful and tender. Crowley was happy with this, not wanting any of it to end, but his body was desperate and impatient.  

Eventually, Aziraphale began scissoring two fingers inside him, and Crowley was sure it had never felt like this before, in all the time he'd been sexually active, it had never been this good. He wanted to tell Aziraphale this, tell him how good he made him feel, but he could never have articulated it. So although Crowley communicated in gasps and moans as Aziraphale worked him open, and the angel replied by brushing light kisses along every available inch of Crowley's skin, neither chose to speak. Crowley simply relished the feeling of being the center of Aziraphale's attention and the feeling of the angel's wonderful fingers inside him; Aziraphale revelled in the effect he had on Crowley, how the tiniest movement could make the demon cry out, how Crowley was naked and open and wanting, all for him. 

Aziraphale had been fucking Crowley with four fingers for several minutes, minutes that felt like hours, when he decided they had both waited long enough. He moved up the length of Crowley's body, dropping soft kisses as he went, until he was hovering with his face nearly touching the demon's. 

“Do it slow,” Crowley whispered, almost inaudibly. “Make me  _ feel _ it.”

Aziraphale nodded, and paused for one eternal moment before sliding into him slowly, as requested. Crowley closed his eyes, dropped his jaw, and responded with a series of quick, high breaths; Aziraphale couldn’t help but think it was the prettiest noise in the universe. Aided by Crowley’s hand tugging on his hair, the angel leaned in for a languid, passionate kiss, swallowing the sounds the demon was making, issuing a moan of his own when Crowley’s tongue slid against his.

“Angel,” Crowley said fervently, once Aziraphale pulled away from the kiss, “please move.”

Almost before he’d finished speaking, Crowley cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath, as Aziraphale rolled his hips once, twice, and then began thrusting in earnest, maintaining a slow and leisurely pace. The demon stopped breathing, wrapped his long legs tight around the angel’s hips, maximizing skin contact as best he could.

“Talk to me,” Aziraphale mumbled against Crowley's throat, pressing a firm kiss to his jugular followed by a light nip of his teeth.

His breath coming in quick pants and gasps, the demon dug his fingertips into the soft flesh of Aziraphale's biceps and rocked down on the angel's cock, trying to push him deeper. “'Ziraphale,” he moaned, low and hoarse. “Don't stop, you feel so good.”

Aziraphale intensified his thrusts, fucking into Crowley with strong, deliberate movements. “Oh, my dear,” he murmured in Crowley's ear, “I missed this, I missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” Crowley responded, then he  _ wailed _ as the angel's cock dragged against his prostate, slow as ever. “Fuck, I missed you so much, angel.”  

Insinuating one hand between their sweaty torsos, Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around the demon's cock, stroked him in time with his unhurried thrusts. Crowley cried out, bucking up into the touch and then rocking back on Aziraphale's cock, the sensation overwhelming no matter which way he moved. His mouth hung open in a soundless gasp, his eyes screwed shut tight.

“Look at me,” the angel said, groaning as Crowley tensed and tightened around him. “I want to see your eyes when I make you come.” 

Crowley whined in the back of his throat and opened his eyes slowly, looking up at Aziraphale. The angel's gaze was open and shining as he stared intently into Crowley's wide eyes, fucking slowly into him and swiping the pad of his thumb over the head of Crowley's cock. 

“Aziraphale,” the demon said, his voice soft and clear, not a moan or a whimper; it might have been conversational, if it weren't suffused with such an intense level of emotion.

Aziraphale leaned in and brushed his lips gently against Crowley's jawline before responding. “Yes, my dear?” 

“Angel,” Crowley attempted to keep his tone even, finding it more difficult as he came closer to orgasm. “Aziraphale…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into a focused effort to maintain eye contact.

“Crowley,” the angel whispered with the same depth of feeling, “anything you need.”

Crowley nodded, pulling Aziraphale down into a quick, messy kiss. The angel obliged him for a moment before breaking away, pulling back enough to look at his face again. He cupped the demon's cheek with his free hand, Crowley cradled Aziraphale's face in both his hands, and they locked eyes once more. The angel hit that sensitive spot inside Crowley over and over again, still working his hand on the demon's cock, and he watched him, entranced by the way Crowley's face reacted to the sensations. 

Aziraphale said, “Come for me.”

Crowley did, and Aziraphale followed not a second later. They rode it out together, Aziraphale keeping up his thrusts as he spilled inside the demon, continuing to stroke Crowley through his own orgasm, never breaking the heated connection of their eyes.

Crowley let out a high-pitched sigh, and then he adopted that same unfathomably earnest tone from before and said, “Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” breathed the angel, unsure whether he was replying to the demon or simply admiring him. 

“Angel, you’re my best friend,” Crowley said, the words tumbling out of his mouth like weighted dice, and he could have sworn he heard them land on the floor with a similar  _ thud, _ as well. 

He had wanted to wait until his breathing had evened out, until they were cleaned up, until they were dressed, until he knew Aziraphale could be sure he wasn't acting in the moment, wasn't drunk on the heat of passion. Unfortunately he was, in fact, drunk on the heat of passion, so he did not wait, and he did not know what he was saying. He looked at the angel, who appeared slightly crestfallen, and quickly moved to correct his mistake.

“Shit,” he muttered half to himself, and then said out loud: “I meant to say I love you.”


	10. Chapter 10

“What do you mean?”

Crowley blinked in shock at the question. “What do I – I  _ mean _ I  _ love  _ you.”

“Yes, I heard you,” Aziraphale replied flatly, “but what exactly does that entail?”

“Well, it – it entails… me… loving you, mostly.” Crowley was too utterly confused to feel insecure about the vulnerability of his position or the emotional stakes in the conversation. Now that he’d said it once, he felt he could repeat it as many times as he needed in order to get it into Aziraphale’s head.

The angel looked at him with a strange combination of fear and hope. He tried to be the reasonable one, out of the two of them, tried to keep a level head, usually, but he didn’t want to be practical at this moment. He didn’t want to think about any possible consequences, or talk in depth about his feelings, or pull teeth to get Crowley to discuss  _ his  _ feelings. 

“I need a shower,” he said, abruptly standing from the bed. 

Crowley ached at his absence. “Can’t you perform a miracle?” he asked, and then winced when he realized there was a possibility Aziraphale actually  _ couldn’t, _ right now. Neither of them quite knew how their power reserves worked – it was ineffable, or something – but Crowley knew some things from experience. The angel's divine power was not finite, but it had a bit of a refractory period, and overdoing it in a short period of time tended to cause serious burnout. Crowley suddenly felt very guilty.

“No, I… I need a shower,” Aziraphale mumbled, “a proper shower.”

“Okay.” Crowley could wait. He was not usually one for patience, but he could wait for Aziraphale. As long as he needed.

Halfway across the room, the angel paused and turned around, his brow furrowed, fixing Crowley with a puzzled, expectant look. “Are you coming?”

Crowley jerked his head up, eyes wide. “Do you want me to?”

“It seems only practical,” Aziraphale explained. “We need to get cleaned up, and we need to talk, so why not do it all at once? It saves time.”

Crowley gave a shaky, halting nod of his head. “Yeah,” he said, slow and quiet, “but do you  _ want  _ me to?” He paused, biting his lip, and then continued, “I mean, er. Would you rather be alone, right now? Or… away… from me?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and snorted. “Why would I ask you to join me in a confined space if I wanted to be away from you?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Crowley, feeling stupid. He still hadn’t moved from the bed. “Sometimes people do things that don’t make sense. Maybe you were just being polite.”

“I was not just being polite,” the angel replied. “Now, are you coming, or not?”

“Er. Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming.” The demon climbed ungracefully out of bed, landing on the floor with wobbly legs, and followed the angel into the bathroom.

It was definitely more… ornate than usual, Crowley noted. The shower especially. It had grown at least twofold, the shabby vinyl tiling had turned to stone, there was a  _ bench _ and  _ three _ shower heads. It was exactly his style, and exactly the opposite of Aziraphale's. 

“When did you renovate?” the demon asked with an edge of humor in his tone.

Aziraphale didn't look up from his business grabbing towels and getting the water turned on. “Just now,” he said nonchalantly. 

Crowley sucked in a breath. “How are you still standing? Can you take it easy for a bit?”

“This  _ is _ easy.”

“Angel.” Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, waited for him to turn around. “This is  _ reckless. _ You're going to run yourself into the ground.”

Aziraphale smiled, a small, cryptic turn of his lips. “You don't understand,” he said softly. “It's always easy, when it's you.”

“Wh- when it's me?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale stepped into the shower, pulling the demon by a hand behind him, and poured soap on a loofah while he spoke. “If I manifest too many cups of tea for myself in one day, I tend to feel a bit fatigued. But for you? I could miracle you an exact replica of the Taj Mahal without breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

Crowley held his breath as Aziraphale stepped closer to him and began rubbing the loofah in small, gentle circles on the demon's stomach. As the angel was steadfastly focused on his task, Crowley watched him, watched his face in particular, noting the way his eyes went wide went he touched a sensitive spot and caused Crowley's abdomen to tense. Flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, Crowley tasted the vanilla-almond scent of the soap, the lingering stench of sex underneath it.

Aziraphale had worked his way up to Crowley's chest, now. He took a breath and spoke again. 

“I just wanted you to know that,” he said breezily, “so you would stop worrying about me. Arms up.”

Crowley raised his arms obediently, trying not to flinch when the loofah touched his ribs, his armpits. He wasn't ticklish, demons couldn't  _ be  _ ticklish, but he had what he called sensitive areas. Anyone else would have called them ticklish spots. 

“I'll never stop worrying about you,” Crowley said after a pause.

“Why?” Aziraphale punctuated the question with his bare hand on the demon’s bicep, shockingly warm compared to the loofah, even compared to the hot water of the shower.

“You know,” Crowley said, closing his eyes, blowing out a breath, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Well, I'll never stop performing grand miracles for you,” replied the angel, as matter-of-fact as if he’d said “the earth is round.”

Crowley opened his eyes and hesitated for a moment, then cocked his head to the side, frowning. “Why?”

Aziraphale looked down to hide the smile that broke across his face unexpectedly. He felt hot, like his skin was melting, but in a good way. “You tell me first,” he retorted, keeping his tone light and teasing as he ran the loofah along the smooth lines of Crowley’s hips. “Why do you worry about me?”

“Because I love you,” Crowley answered without hesitation. “Why do you take care of me?”

“Because I love you,” Aziraphale replied just as quickly.

Crowley looked down, his lips parted and breaths quiet, to see the angel on his knees, casually scrubbing down Crowley’s long legs. Aziraphale seemed to think this conversation was not such a massive revelation as Crowley believed it to be. 

“Lift,” he commanded, tapping the demon’s right ankle. Crowley lifted his foot, and Aziraphale held him by the calf and washed the bottoms of his feet, each of his toes, and then repeated his ministrations on the left side.

Then Aziraphale was standing, and he tilted Crowley’s chin up and cleaned his throat, and his ears. He made a twirling gesture with his finger in the air, prompting Crowley to turn around, and took his time in working the loofah down the demon’s back. 

“Is that it, then?” Crowley turned his head to talk to Aziraphale over his shoulder, eyeing the angel warily. “Kind of anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

“I seem to recall a  _ rousing  _ climax,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley reddened and choked a bit, the way he always did when Aziraphale casually said filthy things. “That’s not what I meant,” he whined, even as he allowed Aziraphale to steer him to sit on the bench so the angel could shampoo his hair.

“What would you prefer?” Aziraphale practically purred, leaning in close to Crowley’s ear from behind him. “What did you imagine it would be like?”

Crowley thought for a moment, his eyes closed, head tilted back to give Aziraphale better access. “Romantic,” he said wistfully, “momentous. You know. Life-changing.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice warm and smooth, amused but not unkind. “My dear boy, I do love you, but perhaps if you were longing for a romantic moment, you shouldn’t have said it mid-orgasm.”

“Hey, you said it when you were drunk,” Crowley shot back playfully, before a low moan escaped him at the feeling of the angel’s fingertips massaging his scalp.

Aziraphale revelled in that for a moment, testing out different techniques to see Crowley’s reaction, gently scratching his head and tugging his hair. “You…” It was a toss-up, whether Aziraphale wanted to continue their banter or lavish praise upon the demon, apropos of nothing.

“What, angel?”

“You  _ kissed  _ me,” the angel replied. It wasn't what he had meant to say, but it came out nonetheless.

Crowley barked out a laugh, turning his head, and he would have gotten shampoo suds in his eyes, if he hadn't been so sure he wouldn't. “I did, but  _ you _ seduced me.”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's cheeks with both hands and twisted him back into a sensible position to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. “Well,” he said, his tone bordering on defensive, “you took it back.” Crowley didn't respond, just kept breathing, deep and even, so Aziraphale continued. “You kissed me and then you said you didn't  _ mean _ it,” he said, and suddenly there was no hint of teasing in his somber tone. “And I was just… so afraid that that meant you would never kiss me again.”

“Gosh…” Crowley whispered, and the word was heavy with the thought of everything he’d done and said for the past several months, reimagined through a new perspective. He had known, of course, that he was acting strange, that he was not being a very good friend to Aziraphale, that he was flakey and depressed and distant, and he had felt guilty for it the entire time. But that was when he thought he’d been annoying Aziraphale, not breaking his heart. “I’m sorry, angel, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t  _ think  _ –”

The angel pressed two fingers to Crowley’s lips gently, effectively quieting him. “We don’t have to… we’ve both been immensely clueless; I’d say it’s best to call it even and move forward.”

Crowley swallowed hard and shook his head as Aziraphale lowered his hand. “Oh, I don’t think it’s even at all,” he murmured, turning in one fluid movement to kneel on the shower floor in front of where the angel sat on the bench. “In fact, I think I’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked, slightly bemused.

Crowley did not respond to the question with words, as his mouth was suddenly otherwise occupied, but he made his answer quite clear.

* * *

 

Crowley padded across the soft carpet to climb back into bed, curling up against Aziraphale’s side with a cup of tea in each hand, gently offering one to the angel. He took a sip and gave an appreciative hum, wrapping an arm around Crowley to pull him closer.

“I've been thinking,” the demon said after a long silence.

“Now, why would you go doing a silly thing like that?”

“No,” Crowley said, squeezing the angel's arm, “I'm being serious.”

Aziraphale tensed. “Alright,” he said cautiously, “what have you been thinking about?”

Crowley paused again, mulling over his thoughts before saying them, which he usually didn't do. “I wanted it to be life-changing,” he said, speaking low. “But it's not, is it?”

“I’m sorry, Crowley, really,” Aziraphale groaned miserably. “I’m sorry we didn’t do it right.”

“That’s just it,” said Crowley, and he perked up his head, his voice brightening somewhat. “We did it perfectly. This is…” He paused to breathe in the moment, watched his fingertips tracing shapes in the angel’s skin, felt the rise and fall of his chest, heard the beat of his heart. “This is how it’s supposed to be.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I love you,” Crowley said, smiling when Aziraphale’s heartbeat sped up. “I’ve  _ always  _ loved you. Loving you is half of who I am. So I think… it makes sense, that it wouldn’t be dramatic, because it’s just us. It’s always just us, and nothing’s really changed.”

“And yet…” Aziraphale spoke purposefully, drawing out each syllable. “Everything’s changed, too, hasn’t it? It’s just us, but – but we’re better.”

“We’ve crossed the uncanny valley.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, nodding his head. “We have, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “we’re on the other side.” He turned his body, shrugging off the angel’s arm, opting instead to drop himself unceremoniously in his lap. The vaguely disapproving look that Aziraphale gave him was met with a broad grin. “We’re at the high point, now. It doesn’t get better than this.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Aziraphale replied, a hint of mischief finding its way into his voice as he wrapped his arms around the demon once again.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “It could be,” he said nonchalantly. “Do you think we can keep going up from here? Please do tell.”

“Oh, love,” murmured the angel, and Crowley’s chest squeezed at the endearment. “If you think this is as good as it gets, then you have vastly underestimated me, because I have big plans. It’s been less than a day, give me some credit.”

“What kinds of big plans?” Crowley asked breathlessly.

“I plan to spend at  _ least _ the next six thousand years doing everything I've always wanted to do for you, with you,  _ to _ you,” the angel said, so plain and cheerful that it almost sounded like a threat. “And, well. After that, I'll have to get creative.”

“Oh,” Crowley said lamely. “Is that… you mean sex?”

“Not entirely, although there certainly will be a lot of that,” Aziraphale said, and then he chuckled at the sound of Crowley's breath catching. “We've  _ been _ having sex, though, and now we're behind on all the other things.”

Crowley cocked his head, pouted out his lower lip. “What other things? You have to tell me, so we don't accidentally make the same plans and end up doing everything twice.”

“Other things,” Aziraphale explained, feeling a twinge of nerves for the first time since he'd started teasing about his plans, “like… like living together? Or…” he trailed off, waiting for a response from the demon.

Crowley let out a small, petulant whine. “Or what?”

“Or, perhaps,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, looking down and away from Crowley's inquisitive eyes. “Perhaps an official union?”

“Official, how?”

The angel groaned, almost inaudibly. “Official as in… sanctioned by the higher powers of the land.”

“You and I are the highest powers  _ physically _ present in this land,” the demon said flippantly. “D'you mean you want Her blessing? She won't give it.”

“No, you impossible thing, I'm talking about getting married.” 

Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale's cheek, guiding him to look up, and leaned in to press his lips to the angel's in one easy movement. “I know,” he teased, a charming grin plastered on his face. “May I just say, it was a brilliant proposal.”

“It was  _ not _ a proposal,” the angel protested quickly. “It was merely a suggestion. You'll know when I'm proposing.”

“Alright, angel.” Crowley idly ran his fingers through Aziraphale's curls, still damp from their shower. “What other plans have you got?”

Aziraphale shook his head, voicing a thoughtful hum. “If I told you all of it right now,” he said evenly, “then you would be simply overwhelmed. Not to mention that the element of surprise is half the fun of gift-giving.”

“Gift-giving?” Crowley wrinkled his brow. “You’re going to give me gifts?”

Aziraphale smiled and blew out a long, low breath. He pulled the demon close, until their foreheads were touching, and closed his eyes. “Yes,” he murmured, his breath ghosting across Crowley's lips. “Yes, my dear, I’m going to give you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, y'all, i finished a multichapter fic... we did it kids. i'm a being of infinite power. thank you for reading thanks for your feedback and support thanks for all your tears. by the dubs, i've got three oneshots on the back burner to add to the Purple Rain Cinematic Universe, so, it's not truly over.


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